You can learn more about good counseling from stories than you can from
all the text books we tell you to read. What appears here are stories
that will tell you about humanity. In all the techniques and theories
we have you learn, there is little about how to be a real genuine kind
and sincere human being. And that's what makes a great counselor.
Not techniques and theories; Oh they help you format your ideas about your
clients, but being a real human being, risking, loving, hurting, crying;
that's what makes a great counselor.
I doubt
if you will ever meet a person who in their retirement will say, "Boy,
I sure wish I had spent more time at work."
Learn to play, and enjoy your friends and
loved ones.
| Mary | Parachute | SEVEN WONDERS | God works in mysterious ways |
| Valentines Day Story | "The Maligned Wolf" | A Story To Live By | Others | Love and The Cabbie | Two Choices |
| Most Important Question | Pickup in the Rain | The Tip | The Obstacle in Our Path | IF I HAD MY LIFE | Jeff's Poems |
| Keep on singing | K e e p Y o u r F o r k | Rocks | Paradox of our time. | Lessons to live by | Thought of the day |
| Wonderful Stories | dyslexia. | The Brick | Success | The Rope | The Box |
| MOM'S LAST LAUGH | Pancakes | CARROT, AN EGG, OR A
COFFEE BEAN? |
Consumed by my loss, I didn't notice the hardness of the pew where I
sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend -- my mother.
She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt was so
intense, I found it hard to breathe at times. Always supportive,
Mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues
while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me at my father's
death, encouraged me in college, and prayed for me my entire life.
When Mother's illness was diagnosed, my sister had
a new baby and my brother had recently married his childhood sweetheart,
so it fell on me, the 27-year-old middle child without entanglements,
to take care of her. I counted it an honor.
"What now, Lord?" I asked sitting in church. My life stretched
out before me as an empty abyss. My brother sat stoically with
his face toward the cross while clutching his wife's hand. My sister
sat slumped against her husband's shoulder, his arms around her as she
cradled their child. All so deeply grieving, no one noticed I sat
alone. My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping
her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication,
reading the Bible together. Now she was with the Lord. My work
was finished, and I was alone.
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of
the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor.
An exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat next
to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his lap. His
eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle. "I'm late," he explained,
though no explanation was necessary. After
several eulogies, he leaned over and commented, "Why do they
keep calling Mary by the name of 'Margaret?'
"Oh" "Because that was her name, Margaret. Never Mary. No one
called her 'Mary,'" I whispered. I wondered why this person couldn't
have sat on the other side of the church. He interrupted my grieving
with his tears and fidgeting.
Who was this stranger anyway? "No, that isn't correct," he insisted,
as several people glanced over at us whispering, "Her name is Mary,
Mary Peters." "That isn't who this is, I replied." "Isn't
this the Lutheran church?" "No, the Lutheran church is across the
street." "Oh." "I believe you're at the wrong funeral, Sir."
The solemnness of the occasion mixed with the realization
of the man's mistake bubbled up inside me and came out as laughter.
I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would be interpreted as sobs.
The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners only made
the situation seem more hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered, misguided
man seated beside me. He was laughing, too, as he glanced around,
deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit.
I imagined Mother laughing. At the final "Amen," we darted out a door
and into the parking lot. "I do believe we'll be the talk of the
town," he smiled. He said his name was Rick and since he had missed
his aunt's funeral, asked me out for a cup
of coffee.
That afternoon began a lifelong journey for me with this man who attended
the wrong funeral, but was in the right place.
A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where
he was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at the same
church, right on time.
In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter.
In place of loneliness, God gave me love. This past June we celebrated
our twenty-second wedding anniversary. Whenever anyone asks us how we met,
Rick tells them, "Her mother and my
Aunt Mary introduced us, and it's truly a match made in heaven."
This one comes from my loving sister Jeri:
His name was Fleming, and he was a poor Scottish farmer. One day,
while trying to make a living for his family, he heard a cry for help coming
from a nearby bog. He dropped his tools and ran to the bog.
There, mired to his waist in black muck, was a terrified boy, screaming
and struggling to free himself. Farmer Fleming saved the lad
from what could have been a slow
and terrifying death.
The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman's sparse surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.
"I want to repay you," said the nobleman. "You saved my son's life." "No, I can't accept payment for what I did," the Scottish farmer replied, waving off the offer. At that moment, the farmer's own son came to the door of the family hovel.
"Is that your son?" the nobleman asked. "Yes," the farmer replied proudly. "I'll make you a deal. Let me take him and give him a good education. If the lad is anything like his father, he'll grow to a man you can be proud of." And that he did.
In time, Farmer Fleming's son graduated from St.Mary's Hospital Medical School in London, and went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of Penicillin.
Years afterward, the nobleman's son was stricken with pneumonia. What saved him? Penicillin. The name of the nobleman? Lord Randolph Churchill. His son's name? Sir Winston Churchill.
Someone once said: What goes around comes around. Work like
you don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt.
Dance like nobody's watching.
The Associated Press
By RICHARD BENKE
CIMARRON, N.M. (AP) - Morning sun brushes gold across the prairie to
the east, infusing every blade of grama grass with light. But night falls
early, the sun pinched off by the jagged, deep navy edge of the Sangre
de Cristos.
Here's where prairie meets the mountains, and Bennett Strahan paints
the vermilion horizon backwards on glass, the first step in a one-of-a-kind
printmaking process.
Strahan doesn't just paint it backwards - he sees it backwards. The
53-year-old artist, a Taliesin-trained architect whose career gained impetus
from Frank Lloyd Wright himself, has the gift of dyslexia.
As a boy, Strahan read by holding books up to mirrors. He was treated
as borderline retarded - until art took hold, with help from his great-great
uncle and encouragement from Wright. Now Strahan says dyslexia was about
the best thing that happened to him.
``I think it has probably helped me more than any single thing I can
think of,'' he says. ``Three-dimensional thinking was what was created
by the dyslexia problem. I could design these things in my head.''
Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West at Scottsdale, Ariz., helped supply
the discipline, structure and theory Strahan needed. He studied there from
1964-66.
And from this northeastern New Mexico town of 900, a one-time Wild
West wagon and stagecoach stop, Strahan runs a multimillion-dollar architecture
practice and an art gallery, the Buffalo Nickel. He paints, cans and sells
pickles - and drives a 1924 Packard.
Strahan is currently working on four building projects totaling some
$70 million - a $25 million resort, Tauqueta Falls in northern Georgia
just south of Chattanooga, Tenn.; Walnut Cove, an even larger project near
Asheville, N.C.; a $12 million solar-homes development, Galena Heights,
near Lake Tahoe; and the $3 million Summersby Park at Hendersonville, N.C.
He helped restore Wright's Auldbrass Plantation in Yemassee, S.C.,
now owned by filmmaker Joel Silver, producer of the ``Die Hard'' and ``Lethal
Weapon'' movies. Silver, passionate about preserving Wright's work, also
owns Wright's Storer House in Los Angeles.
``I've chosen the genre of commercial movies because I need hits to
pay for the restoration of these houses,'' Silver told the Architectural
History Foundation in 1993.
Wright's grandson, Eric Lloyd Wright of Malibu, Calif., commissioned
Strahan for Auldbrass, a compound designed in 1939 by his grandfather on
an antebellum plantation.
Silver hired him as project architect ``and it went very well,'' Wright
recalls. ``We worked several years together. He's very capable in construction
and has a good design sense.''
Strahan credits computer advancement for helping run his office in
Cimarron, a modest corner of cattle country near the 138,000-acre Philmont
Boy Scout Ranch. He'd passed through Philmont as a boy and it drew him
back as an adult.
``This is as majestic as anyplace I've ever been. You have that prairie
coming in and slamming up against those mountains. No transition - just
prairie and mountains,'' he says. ``I'm here because of the prairie, because
of what I paint.''
Last month, he sold 25 art works, including 19 prairie monotypes, in
Topeka, Kan.
``I've always felt my art had a market in the prairie states,'' Strahan
says. ``These people love the prairie with a passion.''
With monotype, the reverse image is painted on glass, then the pane
is pressed into soft paper for the positive image. Color separations require
multiple impressions.
``The monotype process is real dyslexia-friendly,'' he says. ``To lay
the color separations down on paper, you've got to do them backwards.''
Linda Silverman, a Denver child development therapist, has used Strahan
as an example in counseling dyslexic youngsters - children with trouble
decoding written words, who reverse letters and numbers. The right sides
of their brains are stronger than the left.
Most schools focus on the left-brained, ``academically talented child
- great with reading, writing, calculations,'' Silverman says. ``All the
things (such schools) focus on are to the detriment of kids who learn like
Bennett. They take a lot longer to translate their images into words or
numbers.''
Right-brainers often become scientists, musicians, math whizzes, artists,
she says.
``The ones who have changed history, the Einsteins, Edisons, Faradays,
any of the brilliant physicists, are right-hemisphere-gifted people,''
she says. ``They have more in common with the artists than they do with
the English teacher.''
If not for his great-great-uncle Charles Baker, whom he calls simply
``Uncle,'' Strahan, who grew up in Michigan, might never have overcome
the prejudice which in the 1950s held back many dyslexics.
``Uncle told me, `Ain't nothing wrong with you that can't be fixed.
You just need some rewiring,''' he says.
Strahan's uncle taught him to visualize the back side of letters and
words so he could read, and took him to meet Frank Lloyd Wright in Lansing,
Mich.
``I was 11 or 12. There was a line of people waiting to talk to Mr.
Wright afterward. We waited until everybody left. Mr. Wright said, 'What
can I do to help you?'
``I said, 'I want to go to your school.'
``He said, 'Don't you think you're a little young?'''
But Wright gave Strahan an application, and initialed it. When Strahan
submitted it to Taliesin West in 1963, the school sent it back with a note
that he should frame it, for historic value. They gave him a new application
- and accepted him straight out of high school.
AP-NY-11-10-99
Six-year-old Brandon decided one Saturday morning
to fix his parents pancakes. He found a big bowl and spoon, pulled a chair
to the counter, opened the cupboard and pulled out the heavy flour canister,
spilling it on the floor. He scooped some of the flour into
the bowl with his hands, mixed in most of a cup of milk and added
some sugar, leaving a floury trail on the floor which by now had a few
tracks left by his kitten. Brandon was covered with flour and
getting frustrated. He wanted this to be
something very good for Mom and Dad, but it was getting very bad.
He didn't know what to do next, whether to put it
all into the oven or on the stove (and he didn't know how the stove worked)!
Suddenly he saw his kitten licking from the bowl of mix and reached
to push her away, knocking the egg carton to the floor.
Frantically he tried to clean up this monumental mess but slipped on
the eggs, getting his pajamas white and sticky. And just then he saw Dad
standing at the door. Big crocodile tears welled up in Brandon's eyes.
All he'd wanted to do was something good, but he'd made a terrible mess.
He was sure a scolding was coming, maybe even a spanking. But his father
just watched him.
Then, walking through the mess, he picked up; his crying son, hugged
him and loved him, getting his own pajamas white and sticky in the process.
That's how God deals with us. We try to do something
good in life, but it turns into a mess. Our marriage gets all sticky
or we
insult a friend, or we can't stand our job, or our health goes
sour. Sometimes we just stand there in tears because we can't
think of anything else to do. That's when God picks us up and
loves us and forgives us, even though some of our mess gets all over Him.
But just because we might mess up, we can't stop trying to "make pancakes"
for God or for others. Sooner or later we'll get it right, and then they'll
be glad we tried...
This one is from my colleague Anita Thomas.
One day an expert
in time management was speaking to a group of business students and, to
drive home a point used an illustration those students will never
forget. As this man stood in front of the group of high-powered overachievers
he said, "Okay, time for a quiz." Then he pulled out a one-gallon,
wide-mouthed mason jar and set it on a table in front of him.
Then he produced about a dozen fist-sized
rocks and carefully placed them, one at a time, into the jar. When the
jar was filled to the top and no more rocks would fit inside, he asked,
"Is this jar full?" Everyone in the class said, "Yes." Then he said,
"Really?" He reached under the table and pulled out a bucket of gravel.
Then he dumped some gravel in and shook the jar causing pieces of
gravel to work themselves down into the spaces between the big rocks.
Then he asked the group once more, "Is the jar full?" By this time
the class was onto him. "Probably not," one of them answered. "Good!"
he replied. He reached under the table and brought out a bucket of
sand. He started dumping the sand in and it went into all the spaces left
between the rocks and the gravel. Once more he asked the question, "Is
this jar full?" "No!" the class shouted. Once again he said, "Good!"
Then he grabbed a pitcher of water and began to pour it in until
the jar was filled to the brim. Then he looked up at the class and
asked, "What is the point of this illustration?" One eager beaver raised
his hand and said, "The point is, no matter how full your schedule is,
if you try really hard, you can always fit some more things into it!".
"No," the speaker replied, "that's not the point. The truth this illustration
teaches us is: If you don't put the big rocks in first, you'll never
get them in at all." "What are the 'big rocks' in your life? Time
with your loved ones? Your faith, your education, your dreams? A worthy
cause? Teaching or mentoring others?" "Remember to put the
BIG ROCKS in first or you'll never get them in at all." So,
tonight or in the morning when you are reflecting on this short story,
ask yourself this question: What are the 'big rocks' in my life or
business? Then, put those in your jar first.
Right now, take out your daily planner and schedule time for YOUR favorite
things. They are more important than all the rest.
John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened
his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way
through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart
he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose. His interest
in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library.
Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words
of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft
handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind.
In the front of the book, he discovered the previous
owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her
address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter
introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next
day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II.
During the next year and one month the two grew
to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling
on a
fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a
photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't
matter what she looked like. When the day finally came for him to return
from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand
Central Station in New York.
"You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose
I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station looking
for a
girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
A young woman was coming toward me, her figure
long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate
ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle
firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive.
I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was
not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved
her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured.
Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to
her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly
behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked
under a worn hat.. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled
feet thrust into low-heeled shoes.
The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.
I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her,
and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned
me and upheld my own.
And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was
gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle.
I did not
hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy
of the book that was to identify me to her.
This would not be love, but it would be something
precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which
I had been and must ever be grateful.
I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out
the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness
of my disappointment.
"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be
Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what
this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit
who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And
she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you
that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She
said it was some kind of test!"
It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss
Maynell's wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in its response to
the
unattractive.
"Tell me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "And I will tell you who you are."
Well, to begin at the beginning, you see, I'm
really not the person you see here - I'm really a wolf; not any kind of
special wolf, just a regular wolf who was, on that fateful day long ago,
trying to be a good wolf.
The forest was my home. I lived there and
since it was my home, I cared about it. I tried to keep it neat and clean,
safe; you know - all those good things about the balance of nature and
all.
It happened one sunny day while I was going
about my business in the forest (let's see, I was cleaning up some debris
which a camper had left from the previous day) when I heard the sound of
footsteps. I leaped behind a tree and saw a rather plain little girl coming
down the trail carrying a basket. Now, since my job is to keep the forest
safe and clean and neat, it is important that I know what's going on in
the forest - to keep undesirables out, and to make sure that my home remains
a fit place for me
and all my friends to live. I was suspicious of this little girl right
away because aside from the basket she was carrying (which could hold all
sorts of things) she was dressed funny -all in red and with her head covered
so as to seem like she didn't want people to know who she was. So, naturally
I stopped to check her out. I asked who she was, where she was going, where
she had come from, why she was traveling, and whatever. She gave me
some song and dance about going to her grandmother's house and that suspicious
looking basket contained lunch. I didn't believe her at first, but as I
listened further, she appeared to be a basically honest person, and harmless.
But she was in my forest and she certainly looked suspicious with that
strange getup of hers, and I was worried that having her prancing down
the path looking like that might scare my friends and might even tempt
a forest creature not as responsible and kind as I, to threaten her,
thus threatening the safety of my forest. So I decided to teach her a lesson
so she might learn how serious it is to prance (skipping, I think she called
it) through the forest unannounced and dressed funny.
I let her go on her way, and ran ahead to
her grandmother's house and when I saw the nice old woman, I explained
my problem. Being a forest creature herself, seeing as she lived in a small
clearing on the edge of the forest, she agreed that her granddaughter needed
to learn a lesson which, obviously, the girl's mother, who was the grandmother's
daughter, had failed to teach. The old woman agreed to stay out of sight
until I called her. Actually, she hid under the bed.
When the girl came to the door, I invited
her into the bedroom where I was in bed dressed like the grandmother. The
girl came in all rosy checked and said something nasty about my big ears
(which she had no business doing since I can't do anything about my ears
any more than you can). Anyway, I've been insulted before so I took the
hurt and made the best of it by suggesting that my big ears would help
me to hear better. Now, I thought that was a neat thing to say in response
to her insult
because I thought it meant I liked her and wanted to pay close attention
to what she was saying. But what does she do? She makes another insulting
crack about my bulging eyes. Imagine! Here's a little girl who thought
she was talking to her beloved grandmother and she makes two insulting
cracks in a row! And after I tried to be nice when she insulted me the
first time.
Now you see how I was beginning to feel about this girl who had put
on such a nice front, but apparently was a very nasty little person. I
was actually most concerned about the feelings of the grandmother who could
hear all of these insults from under that very bed! But I've made it a
policy to turn the other cheek so I told her that my big eyes helped me
to see her better.
Wouldn't you think that she would get the message that I'm not going
to play her nasty put down game?
Not her!
My plan had been to talk with her for awhile
and then carefully remove the grandmother clothing to show the girl that
she simply must be more careful and alert. But her next insult got to me.
I've got this problem with my teeth. My parents were poor wolves and never
had the money to have good dentistry done on me so I've got kind of prominent
teeth. And that little brat made an insulting crack about my large teeth!
Okay. I've tried to be nice all along, but I'm sensitive about my large
teeth. And her insult about my large teeth made me very angry. I know that
I should have had better control, but that's water under the bridge, as
they say. Anyway, I leaped up from that insult and angrily growled that
my teeth would help me to eat her better.
Now, let's face it - no wolf could ever eat
a little girl - everyone knows that and besides, you know me well enough
by now to know that I'd never hurt anything, It's just that I got very
angry all of a sudden.
But that crazy little girl lost all touch
with reality, She started running around screaming - me chasing her to
calm her down - (I'd already taken off the grandmother clothes, but that
only seemed to make it worse). The grandmother, incidentally, never came
out to help me. All of a sudden the door came crashing down - some lumberjack
destroyed the door with his ax as though there were a four alarm fire.
I looked at him - and then at that hysterical little girl - and all of
a sudden it became clear what I was into. The lumberjack thought I was
attacking the girl. Well, I could understand his violent intentions then
so I turned to him to explain and just then he swung his ax, splitting
me open right across the middle. The blow was so hard that I flew across
the room and and landed on the other side of the bed. About that time the
grandmother finally got it together and came out from under the bed. I
lay there thinking that I ought not to make any sudden moves because there
was that ax still in the lumberjack's hand, so I just lay still and they
left the house, thinking that I was dying. The grandmother never did tell
them what was going on there. I've had a hard time forgiving her for that.
But I didn't die, although I was pretty sick
for a long time. And now people seem to think I'm a mean, nasty guy. I've
had to change my appearance and my job. I'd much rather be a wolf and return
to my forest, but I can't take that chance as long as there are so many
people who think I'm dangerous. Why, even little children in school are
taught that I'm mean and nasty. I've lost everything and just because I
was trying to help, trying to keep my forest safe for everyone - even for
that little girl.
Well, now you know MY story, and I feel better
already for telling you. It does seem to be better when I'm not carrying
all those burdens by myself. Thank you for listening.
Fearn, Lief. "The Maligned Wolf," Individual Development: Creativity,
Education Improvement Associated, San Diego, California, 1974.
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Questions for "The Maligned Wolf"
Opening:
* 1. Read the definition of maligned. Why did the author
pick this title?
* 2. What would your title be if you were the author of
this story?
* 3. Think of the O.J. Simpson trial, or any other situation
that has happened. How is it possible to have so many
different stories of the same event?
* 4. Have you ever thought of someone in a certain way
upon first impression and then found out later that they were really different
from your initial impression?
* 5. Have you ever wanted to "teach someone a lesson"?
* 6. Have you ever looked at some situation in your own
life in one way, but changed your mind about it after listening to more
than one person tell their side of the story?
* 7. Think about a situation you've been in where you
felt like someone was judging you based on information they received about
you from someone else. Describe how you felt when it happened.
* 8. Have you ever decided that you liked or disliked
someone based on the way that person looked, dressed, or based on what
your friends had told you about that person? How do you think it made that
person feel?
* 9. What is a stereotype?
* 10. How do rumors get started?
* 11. What is a point of view?
* 12. What is perspective?
Core:
* 1. How did you feel about (the wolf, Little Red, grandmother,
the lumberjack) before the story? After?
* 2. At what point in the story did your perspective change?
* 3. At what point did your attitude about (the wolf,
Little Red, grandmother, the lumberjack) change?
* 4. Do you agree or disagree with the title? Was the
wolf maligned? Refer to the text to support your answer.
* 5. The wolf said he had a plan in mind when he dressed
up like the grandmother. What was his plan? Use the text to support your
answer.
* 6. Why did the wolf feel the little girl was threatening
the forest? Do you think he just didn't want her in the forest because
she looked, dressed and acted differently?
* 7. When do you think this new version was written? Why?
(Recently? Focus on environment- 2nd paragraph.)
* 8. Do we as a society judge people on their dress? Examples?
* 9. How did the wolf first react when being made fun
of? What defenses do we as humans use?
* 10. To what conclusion did the lumberjack jump?
* 11. How does this story tie into the ways we perceive
history as being written?
* 12. In a research paper, why do we go to more than one
source?
* 13. Do we always believe what other people say about
something without finding out the hard facts for ourselves?
* 14. How does this tie into our nation's perception of
what a person is like, such as Andrew Jackson or George Custer?
* 15. Do we as a society enjoy hearing the truth, or would
we rather get an embellished version of the truth?
* 16. Can you think of any other myths or legends that
don't seemed to be based in fact?
* 17. Can you see this story as a metaphor for something
that has happened in our society? (A similar type story?)
* 18. What do you think the symbolism might be for the
wolf?
* 19. How did we view the Russians before the cold war
and socialism ended?
* 20. What is rationalization?
* 21. How is each part of the story rationalized?
* 22. Three decades ago, the American Indian was perceived
differently than he/she is today. Can you see the
(metaphor, analogy, symbolism, etc.) between this story and
our (White Anglo-American) perception of the Native American?
* 23. Do you think the wolf was being truthful about his
reasons for pretending to be the grandmother in bed?
* 24. Identify one (several) of the wolf's explanations
as being "his side" of the story.
* 25. What is the Wolf's most convincing argument?
* 26. Do you think Little Red knew it wasn't her grandmother
in the bed?
Closing:
* 1. What bedtime/nursery/fairy tales/ folk tales do you
remember that has the wolf as the bad guy?
* 2. How are people suspicious, like the wolf?
* 3. What do you think is the moral of the traditional
story?
* 4. What do you think is the moral of The Maligned Wolf?
* 5. Why do you think the wolf felt better for telling
his story?
* 6. Relate this story to everyday gossip. What can you
do to help stop it?
* 7. Do you fell the wolf suffered as a result of his
actions? Explain your answers.
* 8. Whose account of the story do you believe - the wolf
or the little girl? Could both versions be true accounts of what happened?
* 9. Briefly tell or write about a situation where you
gave one account of the way something happened and the way a sister, brother
or friend gave a different version of the same situation.
Followup:
Read one or more other versions of the Little Red Riding Hood to the class- the Politically Correct version or the Feminist Version.
Have the kids write their own version of the story from Grandmother's
point of view or the Lumberjack's point of view, or from a science fiction
slant.
The paradox of our time in history is that we have
taller buildings, but shorter tempers; wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints;
we spend more, but have less; we buy more, and enjoy it less. We
have bigger houses and smaller families; more conveniences, but less time;
we have more degrees, but less sense; more knowledge, but less judgment;
more experts, but more problems; more medicine, but less wellness.
We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly,
laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry too quickly, stay up too
late, get up too tired, read too seldom, watch TV too much, and pray too
seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.
We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.
We've learned how to make a living, but not a life;
we've added years to life, not life to years. We've been all the
way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet
the new neighbor. We've conquered outer space, but not inner space;
we've done larger things, but not better things; we've cleaned up the air,
but polluted the soul; split the atom, but
not our prejudice; we write more, but learn less; we plan more, and
accomplish less.
We've learned to rush, but not to wait; we have
higher incomes, but lower morals; we have more food, but less appeasement;
we build more computers to hold more information to produce more copies
than ever, but have less
communication; we've become long on quantity, but short on quality.
These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion;
tall people and short character; steep profits and shallow relationships.
These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare; more leisure,
but less fun; more kinds of food, and less nutrition.
These are days of two incomes, but more divorce; of fancier houses,
but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers,
throw-away morality, one-night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that
do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is
much in the show window and nothing in the stockroom; a time when technology
can bring this letter to you, and a time when YOU can CHOOSE either to
make a difference, or to just hit delete...
Author Unknown - But what are YOU going to do about it???
Are you part of the solution??
My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my
sister's bureau and lifted out a tissue-wrapped package. "This,"
he said, "is not a slip. This is lingerie." He discarded the tissue
and handed me the slip. It was exquisite; silk, handmade and trimmed with
a cobweb of lace. The price tag with an astronomical figure on it was still
attached. "Jan bought this the first time we went
to New York, at least 8 or 9 years ago. She never wore it. She
was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is
the occasion."
He took the slip from me and put it on the bed with
the other clothes we were taking to the mortician. His hands lingered on
the soft material for a moment, then he slammed the drawer shut and turned
to me. "Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Every day you're
alive is a special occasion."
I remembered those words through the funeral and
the days that followed when I helped him and my niece attend to all the
sad chores that follow an unexpected death. I thought about them on the
plane returning to California from the Midwestern town where my sister's
family lives. I thought about all the things that she hadn't seen or heard
or done. I thought about the things
that she had done without realizing that they were special. I'm still
thinking about his words, and they've changed my life.
I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting on
the deck and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden.
I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time in committee
meetings. Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experience to
savor, not endure. I'm trying to recognize these moments now and
cherish them.
I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china
and crystal for every special event-such as losing a pound, getting the
sink
unstopped, the first camellia blossom. I wear my good blazer
to the market if I feel like it. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can
shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries without wincing. I'm not
saving my good perfume for special parties; clerks in hardware stores and
tellers in banks have noses that function as well as my party-going friends'.
"Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their
grip on my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want
to
see and hear and do it now. I'm not sure what my sister would
have done had she known that she wouldn't be here for the tomorrow we all
take for granted. I think she would have called family members and a few
close friends. She might have called a few former friends to apologize
and mend fences for past squabbles.
I like to think she would have gone out for a Chinese
dinner, her favorite food. I'm guessing-I'll never know. It's those little
things left undone that would make me angry if I knew that my hours were
limited. Angry because I put off seeing good Friends whom I was going to
get in touch with someday. Angry because I hadn't written certain
letters that I intended to written of these days. Angry and sorry that
I didn't tell my husband and daughter often enough how much I truly love
them.
I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back,
or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives. And every
morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special.
Every day, every minute, every breath truly is...a
gift from God. If you've received this it is because someone cares
for you
and it means there is probably at least someone for whom you care.
If you're too busy to take the few minutes that it would
take right now to forward this to ten people, would it be the first
time you didn't do that little thing that would make a difference in your
relationships? I can tell you it certainly won't be the last.
I don't have to make up silly stories about people being hit by buses or
crushed by falling disco balls for not sending this letter on.
You've seen the result of this neglect in your own
relationships that you have allowed to fade, dissolve, and fall into disrepair.
Take this opportunity to set a new trend. Take a few minutes
to send this to a few people you care about, just to let them know that
you're thinking of them. It's even better if they're not the people
you already correspond with every week. The more people that you
send this to, the better luck you will have. And the better you'll get
and reaching out to those you care about.
"Love and The Cabbie" By Art Buchwald
I was in New York the other day and rode with a friend in a taxi. When
we got out, my friend said to the driver, "Thank you for the ride. You
did a superb job of driving." The taxi driver was stunned for a second.
Then he said, "Are you a wise guy or something?" "No, my dear man,
and I'm not putting you on. I admire the way you keep cool in heavy traffic."
"Yeah," the driver said and drove off.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
I am trying to bring love back to New York," he said. "I believe it's the
only thing that can save the city." "How can one man save New York?"
"It's not one man. I believe I have made that taxi driver's day.
Suppose he has 20 fares. He's going to be nice to those 20 fares because
someone was nice to him. Those fares in turn will be kinder to their employees
or shopkeepers or waiters or even their own families. Eventually the goodwill
could spread to at least 1,000 people. Now that isn't bad, is it?"
"But you're depending on that taxi driver to pass your goodwill to others."
"I'm not depending on it," my friend said. "I'm aware that the system
isn't foolproof so I might deal with ten different people today. If out
of ten I can make three happy, then eventually I can indirectly influence
the attitudes of 3,000 more."
"It sounds good on paper," I admitted, "but I'm not sure it works in
practice." "Nothing is lost if it doesn't. It didn't take any of
my time to tell that man he was doing a good job. He neither received a
larger tip nor a smaller tip. If it fell on deaf ears, so what? Tomorrow
there will be another taxi driver I can try to make happy."
"You're some kind of a nut," I said. "That
shows how cynical you have become. I have made a study of this. The thing
that seems to be lacking, besides money of course, for our postal employees,
is that no one tells people who work for the post office what a good job
they're doing." "But they're not doing a good job." "They're
not doing a good job because they feel no one cares if they do or not.
Why shouldn't someone say a kind word to them?" We were walking past
a structure in the process of being built and passed five workmen eating
their lunch. My friend stopped. "That's a magnificent job you men
have done. It must be difficult and dangerous work." The workmen
eyed my friend suspiciously. "When will it be finished?"
"June," a man grunted. "Ah. That really is impressive. You must
all be very proud." We walked away. I said to him, "I haven't
seen anyone like you since The Man From La Mancha." "When those men
digest my words, they will feel better for it. Somehow the city will benefit
from their happiness." "But you can't do this all alone!" I protested.
"You're just one man."
"The most important thing is not to get discouraged. Making people
in the city become kind again is not an easy job, but if I can enlist other
people in my campaign. . ." "You just winked at a very plain looking
woman," I said.. "Yes, I know," he replied. "And if she's a schoolteacher,
her class will be in for a fantastic day."
"You've got to dance like nobody's watching, and
love like it's never going to hurt."
"People say true friends must always hold hands,
but true friends don't need to hold hands because they know the other
hand will always be there."
"Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. 'Pooh!'
he whispered.
'Yes, Piglet?'
'Nothing,' said Piglet, taking Pooh's paw.
'I just wanted to be sure of you.'"
i will not drag you along; i will not leave you alone;
i will stand by you and have my hand there for you
to hold when you need to.
Two Choices
Thanks for the following story goes to former student Brian Yager
Jerry was the kind of guy
you love to hate. He was always in a good mood and always had something
positive to say. When someone would ask him how he was doing, he
would reply, "If I were any better, I would be twins!" He was a
unique manager because he had several waiters who had followed
him around from restaurant to restaurant. The reason the waiters
followed Jerry was because of his attitude. He was a natural motivator.
If an employee was having a bad day, Jerry was there telling the employee
how to look on the positive side of the situation. Seeing this style
really made me curious, so one day I went up to Jerry and asked
him, "I don't get it! You can't be a positive person all of the time.
How do you do it?" Jerry replied, "Each morning I wake up and say to myself,
Jerry, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a
good mood or you can choose to be in a bad mood." I choose to be
in a good mood. Each time something bad happens, I can choose to
be a victim or I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from
it. Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept
their complaining or I can point out the positive side of life. I
choose the positive side of
life." "Yeah, right, it's not that easy," I protested. "Yes it
is," Jerry said, "Life is all about choices. When you cut away all
the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to
situations. You choose how people will affect your mood. You choose
to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It's your choice how
you live life." I reflected on what Jerry said. Soon thereafter,
I left the restaurant industry to start my own business. We lost touch,
but often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of
reacting to it.
Several years
later, I heard that Jerry did something you are never supposed to do in
a restaurant business, he left the back door open one morning and
was held up at gun point by three armed robbers. While trying to open the
safe, his hand,
shaking from nervousness, slipped off the combination. The robbers
panicked and shot him. Luckily, Jerry was found relatively quickly
and rushed to the local trauma center. After 18 hours of surgery
and weeks of intensive care, Jerry was released from the hospital with
fragments of the bullets still in his body.
I saw Jerry about six months
after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he said, "If I were any
better, I'd be twins. Wanna see my scars?" I declined to see his wounds
but did ask him what had gone through his mind as the robbery took
place. "The first thing that went through my mind was that I should have
locked the back door," Jerry replied. "Then, as I lay on the floor, I remembered
that I had two choices - I could choose to live, or I could choose to die.
I chose to live. "Weren't you scared? Did you lose consciousness?"
I asked. Jerry continued, "The paramedics were great. They
kept telling me I was
going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the emergency
room and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses,
I got really scared. In their eyes, I read, 'He's a dead man. " I
knew I needed to take action." "What did you do?"
I asked. "Well, there was a big, burly nurse shouting questions at
me," said Jerry. "She asked if I was allergic to anything. 'Yes,' I replied.
The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply.
I took a deep breath and yelled, 'Bullets!' Over their laughter, I told
them, "I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not
dead."
Jerry lived thanks
to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude.
I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully. Attitude,
after all, is everything.
Thanks for the following three short stories goes to former student Jennifer Isham
During my second month of
nursing school, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was
a conscientious student and had breezed through the questions, until
I read the last one: "What is the first name of the woman who cleans
the school?" Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the cleaning
woman several times. She was tall, dark-haired and in her 50s, but
how
would I know her name? I handed in my paper, leaving the
last question blank. Before class ended, one student asked if
the last question would count toward our quiz grade. "Absolutely,"
said the professor. "In your careers you will meet many people. All
are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even
if all you do is smile and say 'Hello'." I've never forgotten that
lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.
One night, at 11:30 PM, an
older African American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama
highway trying to endure a lashing rainstorm. Her car had broken down and
she desperately needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to
flag down the next car. A young white man stopped to help her
- generally unheard of in those conflict filled 1960s. The man took
her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxicab.
She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote down his address, thanked
him and drove away. Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door.
To his surprise, a giant
console color TV was delivered to his home. A special note was
attached. It read: "Thank you so much for assisting me on the
highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes but also
my spirits. Then you came along. Because of
you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just before
he passed away. God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving
others."
Sincerely,
Mrs. Nat King Cole
In the days when an ice cream
sundae cost much less, a 10 year old boy entered a hotel coffee shop
and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in
front of him. "How much is an ice cream sundae?" "Fifty cents,"
replied the waitress. The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket
and studied a number of coins in it. "How much is a dish of plain
ice cream?" he
inquired. Some people were now waiting for a table and
the waitress was a bit impatient. "Thirty-five cents," she said
brusquely. The little boy again counted the coins.
"I'll have the plain ice cream," he said. The waitress brought
the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away.
The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and departed. When
the waitress came back, she began wiping down the table and then
swallowed hard at what she saw. There, placed neatly beside the
empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies - her tip.
In ancient times, a king
had a boulder placed on a roadway. Then he hid himself and
watched to see if anyone would remove the huge rock. Some of the
king's wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply walked
around it.
Many loudly blamed the king for not keeping the roads clear, but none
did anything about getting the big stone out of the way. Then a peasant
came along carrying a load of vegetables. On approaching the boulder,
the peasant laid down his burden and tried to move the stone to the
side of the road. After much pushing and straining, he
finally succeeded. As the peasant
picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse lying in
the road where the boulder had been. The purse contained many gold
coins and a note from the king indicating that the gold was for the
person who removed the boulder from the roadway. The peasant learned what
many others never understand. Every obstacle presents an opportunity
to improve one's condition.
Many years ago, when I worked
as a volunteer at Stanford Hospital, I got to know a little girl
named Liz who was suffering from a rare and serious disease. Her only chance
of recovery appeared to be a blood transfusion from her 5 year old
brother, who had miraculously survived the same disease and had developed
the antibodies, needed to combat the illness. The doctor explained
the situation to her little brother, and asked the boy if he would be willing
to give his blood to his sister. I saw him hesitate for only a moment
before taking a deep breath and saying, "Yes, I'll do it if it will save
Liz." As the transfusion progressed, he lay in bed next to his sister.
He looked up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, "Will I start
to die right away?" Being young, the boy had misunderstood
the doctor; he thought he was going to have to give his sister all of his
blood.
Thanks for sharing this goes to my good friend Andi Brantley
by Erma Bombeck
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the
carpet was stained and the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living
room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to
light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather
ramble about his youth.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled
up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose
before it melted in storage.
I would have sat on the lawn with my children and not
worried about grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television
- and more while watching life.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried
by my husband.
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending
the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would never have bought anything just because it was
practical, wouldn't show soil or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd
have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside
me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have
said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner."
There would have been more "I love yous".. more
"I'm sorrys" ...but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every
minute ...look at it and really see it... live it...and never give
it back.
In memory of Erma Bombeck who lost her fight with
cancer.
Thanks for this one one goes to my friend and colleague, Dr. Anita Jones-Thomas
Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on the way, she did what she could to help her 3-year-old son, Michael, prepare for a new sibling. They find out that the new baby is going to be a girl, and day after day, night after night, Michael sings to his sister in Mommy's tummy. The pregnancy progresses normally for Karen, an active member of the Panther Creek United Methodist Church in Morristown, Tennessee. Then the labor pains come every five minutes ... every minute. But complications arise during delivery. Hours of labor; would a C-section be required? Finally, Michael's little sister is born. But she is in serious condition. With siren howling in the night, the ambulance rushes the infant to the neonatal intensive care unit at St. Mary's Hospital, Knoxville, Tennessee. The days inch by. The little girl gets worse. The pediatric specialist tells the parents, "There is very little hope. Be prepared or the worst." Karen and her husband contact a local cemetery about a burial plot. They have fixed up a special room in their home for the new baby---now they plan a funeral. Michael, keeps begging his parents to let him see his sister, "I want to sing to her," he says. Week two in intensive care. It looks as if a funeral will come before the week is over. Michael keeps nagging about singing to his sister, but kids are never allowed in Intensive Care. Karen makes up her mind. She will take Michael whether they like it or not. If he doesn't see his sister now, he may never see her alive. She dresses him in an oversized scrub suit and marches him into ICU. He looks like a walking laundry basket, but the head nurse recognizes him as a child and bellows, "Get that kid out of here now! No children are allowed.The mother rises up strong in Karen, and the usually mild-mannered lady glares steel-eyed into the head nurse's face, her lips a firm line."He is not leaving until he sings to his sister!" Karen tows Michael to his sister's bedside. He gazes at the tiny infant losing the battle to live. And he begins to sing. In the pure hearted voice of a 3-year-old, Michael sings: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray." Instantly the baby girl responds.The pulse rate becomes calm and steady. Keep on singing, Michael. "You never know, dear, how much I love you, Please don't take my sunshine away---" The ragged, strained breathing becomes as smooth as a kitten's purr. Keep on singing, Michael. "The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms..." Michael's little sister relaxes as rest,healing rest, seems to sweep over her. Keep on singing, Michael. Tears conquer the face of the bossy head nurse. Karen glows. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. Please don't, take my sunshine away." Funeral plans are scrapped. The next day- the very next day-the little girl is well enough to go home! Woman's Day magazine called it "the miracle of a brother's song." The medical staff just called it a miracle. Karen called it a miracle of God's love!
NEVER GIVE UP ON THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE. Those who bring sunshine
to the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves!
From my student and teacher, Mary Meyers
There was a woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and
had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things
"in order", she contacted her pastor and had him come to her house to discuss
certain aspects of her final wishes. She told him which songs she
wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what
outfit she wanted to be buried in. The woman also requested to be buried
with her favorite Bible. Everything was in order and the pastor was preparing
to leave when the woman suddenly remembered something very important to
her. "There's one more thing," she
said excitedly. "What's that?" came the pastor's reply.
"This is very important," the woman continued..."I want to be buried with
a fork in my right hand." The pastor stood looking at the woman, not knowing
quite what to say..."That surprises you, doesn't it?" the woman asked.
"Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the pastor. The
woman explained. "In all my years of attending church socials and
potluck dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course
were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say,"keep your
fork." It was my favorite part because I knew that
something better was coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish
apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance! So, I just
want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I
want them to wonder 'What's with the fork?'
Then I want you to tell them: "Keep Your Fork"...."The best is yet
to come" The pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the
woman goodbye.
He knew this would be one of the last times he would
see her before her death. But he also knew that the woman had a better
grasp of heaven than he did. She KNEW that something better was coming.
At the funeral people were walking by the woman's casket and they saw the
pretty dress she was wearing and her favorite Bible and the fork placed
in her right hand. Over and over the pastor heard the question "What's
with the fork?" And over and over he smiled. During his message,
the pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the woman shortly
before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized
to her. The pastor told the people how he could not stop thinking
about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop
thinking about it either. He was right. So the next time you reach
down for your fork, let it remind you oh so gently, that the best is yet
to come...
This one comes from my good friend Andi's brother in law. I don't
know him, but I already like him.
We convince ourselves that life will be better after we are married,
have a baby, then another. Then we are frustrated that the kids aren't
old enough and we'll be more content when they are. After that we're
frustrated that we have teenagers to deal with. We will certainly be happy
when they are out of that stage. We tell ourselves that our life will be
complete when our spouse gets his or her act together, when
we get a nicer car, are able to go on a nice vacation, when we retire.
The truth is, there is no better time to be happy than right now.
If not now, when?
Your life will always be filled with challenges. It's best to
admit this to yourself and be happy anyway.
One of my favorite quotes comes from Alfred D'Souza. He said,
"For a long time, it had seemed to me that life was about to begin - real
life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to
be gotten through first, unfinished business, time still to
be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last
it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life."
This perspective has helped me to see that there is no easy way to happiness. Happiness is the way.
Treasure every moment that you have and treasure it more because you
shared it with someone special. Someone special enough to spend your
time with and remember, time waits for no one.
So, stop waiting until you finish school, until you go back to school,
until you lose ten pounds, until you gain ten pounds, until you have kids,
until your kids leave the house, until you start work, until you retire,
until you get married, until you are
divorced, until Friday night, until Sunday morning, until you get a
new car or home, until your car or home is paid off, until spring, until
summer, until fall, until winter, until you're off welfare, until the first
or the fifteenth, until your song comes on, until
you had a drink, until you're sobered up, until you die, until you
are born again to decide that there is no better time than right now to
be happy.
Happiness is a journey, not a destination.
Thought of the day:
Work like you don't need money,
Love like you've never been hurt,
And dance like no one's watching.
These are great words to live by, I know I'm trying !!
And these come from my colleague and friend Anita's sister Sheila.
The following are a few short, but heartwarming stories. Pass these to your friends and family.
The Most Caring Child
Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked
about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest
was to find the most caring child. The winner was a four year old
child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently
lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into
the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap,
and just sat there. When his mother asked him what he had said to the
neighbor, the little boy said, "Nothing, I just helped him cry."
What It Means to Be Adopted
Teacher Debbie Moon's first graders were discussing a picture
of a family. One little boy in the picture had a different color
hair than the other family members. One child suggested that he was
adopted and a little girl said, "I know all about adoptions because I was
adopted." "What does it mean to be adopted?" asked another child. "It means,"
said the girl,
"that you grew in your mommy's heart instead of her tummy."
Barney
A four year old was at the pediatrician for a check up. As the
doctor looked down her ears with an otoscope, he asked, "Do you think
I'll find Big Bird in here?" The little girl stayed silent. Next,
the doctor took a tongue depressor and looked down her throat. He
asked, "Do you think I'll find the Cookie Monster down there?" Again, the
little girl was silent.Then
the doctor put a stethoscope to her chest. As he listened
to her heart beat, he asked, "Do you think I'll hear Barney in there?"
"Oh, no!" the little girl replied. "Jesus is in my heart.
Barney's on my underpants."
Discouraged?
As I was driving home from work one day, I stopped to watch a
local Little League baseball game that was being played in a
park near my home. As I sat down behind the bench on the first-base
line, I asked one of the boys what the score was. "We're behind 14
to nothing," he answered with a smile. "Really," I said. "I have to say
you don't look very discouraged." "Discouraged?" the boy asked with a puzzled
look on his face. "Why should we be discouraged? We haven't
been up to
bat yet."
Roles And How We Play Them
Whenever I'm disappointed with my spot in my life, I stop and
think about little Jamie Scott. Jamie was trying out for a part in
a school play. His mother told me that he'd set his heart on being
in it, though she feared he would not be chosen. On the day the parts
were awarded, I went with her to collect him after school. Jamie
rushed up to her, eyes shining with pride
and excitement. "Guess what Mom," he shouted, and then said those
words that will remain a lesson to me: "I've been chosen to
clap and cheer."
A Lesson In Heart
A lesson in "heart" is my little, 10 year old daughter, Sarah, who was born with a muscle missing in her foot and wears a brace all the time. She came home one beautiful spring day to tell me she had competed in "field day" - that's where they have lots of races and other competitive events. Because of her leg support, my mind raced as I tried to think of encouragement for my Sarah, things I could say to her about not letting this get her down - but before I could get a word out, she said "Daddy, I won two of the races!" I couldn't believe it! And then Sarah said, "I had an advantage." Ah. I knew it. I thought she must have been given a head start...some kind of physical advantage. But again, before I could say anything, she said,"Daddy, I didn't get a headstart... My advantage was I had to try harder!"
An Eye Witness Account from New York City, on a cold day in December...
(Wishfully, this is the kind of thing that would happen frequently,everywhere...)
A little boy about 10 years old was standing before a shoe
store on the roadway, barefooted, peering through the window, and shivering
with cold. A lady approached the boy and said, "My little fellow, why are
you looking so earnestly in that window?" "I was asking God to give
me a pair of shoes," was the boys reply. The lady took him by the
hand and went into
the store and asked the clerk to get half a dozen pairs of socks for
the boy. She then asked if he could give her a basin of water and
a towel. He quickly brought them to her. She took the little
fellow to the back part of the store and, removing her gloves, knelt down,
washed his little feet, and dried them with a towel. By this time
the clerk had returned with the socks.
Placing a pair upon the boy's feet, she purchased him a pair of shoes.
She tied up the remaining pairs of socks and gave them to him. She
patted him on the head and said, "No doubt, my little fellow, you feel
more comfortable now?" As she turned to go, the astonished lad caught her
by the hand, and looking up in her face, with tears in his eyes, answered
the question
with these words: "Are you God's Wife?"
Thanks to my fellow Elder, Kevin McDonald
A young and successful executive was traveling down a neighborhood
street, going a bit too fast in his new Jaguar. He was watching for
kids darting out from between parked cars and slowed
down when he thought he saw something. As his car passed, no children
appeared, instead, a brick smashed into the Jag's side door!
He slammed on the brakes and spun the Jag back to the spot from where
the brick had been thrown. He jumped out of the car, grabbed
some kid and pushed him
up against a parked car, shouting, "What was that all about
and who are you? Just what the heck are you doing?!!"
Building up a head of steam, he went on. "That's a new car and that
brick you threw is gonna cost a lot of money. Why did you do it?!!"
"Please, mister, please, I'm sorry-I didn't know what else to do!"
pleaded the youngster. "I threw the brick because no one else would
stop......." Tears were dripping down the
boy's chin as he pointed around the parked car. "It's my brother,"
he said. "He rolled off the curb and fell out of
his wheelchair and I can't lift him up." Sobbing, the boy asked the
executive, "Would you please help me get him back into his
wheelchair? He's hurt and he's too heavy for me." Moved beyond
words, the driver tried to swallow the rapidly swelling lump
in his throat. He lifted the young man back into the wheelchair and took
out his handkerchief and wiped the scrapes and cuts, checking to
see that everything was going to be okay. "Thank
you,
sir. And God bless you." the grateful child said to him. The
man then watched the little boy push his brother down the sidewalk
toward their home. It was a long walk back to his Jaguar... a long,
slow walk.
He never did repair the side door. He kept
the dent to remind him not to go through life so fast that someone
has to throw a brick at you to get your attention.
Life whispers in your soul and speaks to your heart. Sometimes, when
you don't have the time to listen...Life throws a brick
at your head. It's your choice: Listen to the whispers
of your soul or wait for the brick.
Sports psychologists have identified six reoccurring traits common among gold-medalist athletes. These "traits of a champion" apply to both men and women, and are also dominant factors in the lives of those who succeed in non-athletic vocations.
1. Self-analysis. The successful athlete knows her strengths
and weaknesses, and engages in critical appraisal that is honest, but never
negative.
2. Self-competition. A winner knows she can only control
her own performance, so she competes against her own best effort, not that
of others.
3. Focus. The champion is always "in the present," concentrating
on the task at hand.
4. Confidence. Successful athletes control anxiety by setting
tough but reasonable goals. As goals are reached, confidence increases.
5. Toughness. This is a mental trait that involves accepting
risk and trying to win, rather than trying not to lose. A winner
sees
change as opportunity and accepts responsibility for her own destiny.
6. Having a game plan. Even elite athletes know talent
is not enough. They have a game plan.
Everyone can develop these traits. Everyone!
This one is from a former student Neil Swier. I really like it and find it very useful for opening up my mind when I'm stuck.
A story I once heard was about a young man who had finally discovered
his life passion and set out on a journey that would
take him to his desired destination. In order to achieve his
life's purpose, he needed to reach his destination by the end of the day.
Not long after he began his journey, he came to a bridge and as he approached
he could see another traveler on that bridge.
As he drew closer, he could see that the man on the bridge had a rope
tied around his waist and held the loose end in his hands. When the
two men were close together, the man with the rope around his waist held
out the end of the rope and said, "Take this and hold on tight. Whatever
you do, don't let go."
Somewhat shocked, the young man took the rope and as he did,
the other man jumped over the side of the bridge and yelled, "Hold on!
Whatever you do, don't let go or I'll die." The young man held on
and the jumper was suspended halfway down the deep gorge, sure to die if
he fell.
The young man screamed and tried to pull the jumper up but he was too
heavy. Every time he made a suggestion, the jumper shouted back,
"Hold on. Don't let go! If you let go I'll die." The
young man pulled and tugged and tried everything he could to pull the man
up but it was no use. And, as the afternoon began to slip away, the
young man could see that he might not reach his destination in time unless
he did something immediately.
Suddenly, he thought of a way the jumper could wrap the rope around
himself and eventually pull himself up. He shouted down the instructions
but the jumper only said, "No, please don't let go ... I'll die if you
do."
The young man coaxed and wheedled to no avail and he realized he was
running out of time. He yelled down the instructions one more time
and said, "If you don't do this, I'm going to let go of the rope."
The jumper again said, "No, just hold on. If you let go, I'll
die. Just hang on tight."
So, the young man let go of the rope.
####
I was shocked when I heard this story. Shocked by the harsh ending
and the thought that someone could just let go when it would mean the death
of the person at the other end of the rope. However, the story teller
asked us to think about the story in relationship to our lives and to think
about what it was in our lives that was represented by the jumper.
What was it that we were holding on to that was keeping us from getting
on with our life? We were asked to think about that thing at the
end of the rope and think about what it would mean to let go of it?
Was it worth staying stuck in order to keep that thing at the end of the
rope alive? What would really happen if we let go? It
was a breakthrough exercise for me and I thought it might be a useful
reflection exercise for you as we head into a new year, century and
millennium.
My friend and colleague Anita Thomas keeps sending me these jewells.
The story goes that some time ago, a man punished his 3-year-old daughter
for wasting a roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight and he
became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to
put under the Christmas tree. Nevertheless, the little girl brought the
gift to her father the next morning and said, "This is for you, Daddy."
He was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared
again when he found the box was empty. He yelled at her, "Don't
you know when you give someone a present, there's supposed to be something
inside it?"
The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh,
Daddy, it's not empty, I blew kisses into the box. All for you, Daddy."
The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl,
and he begged for her forgiveness.
It is told that the man kept that gold box by his bed for years and
whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss
and remember the love of the child who had put it there.
In a very real sense, each of us as humans, have been given a gold
container filled with unconditional love and kisses from our children,
friends, family or God There is no more precious possession anyone
could hold.
"Friends are angels who lift us to our feet when our wings have trouble remembering how to fly."
~Philippians 4:13~
~~~~~~~~
This one was given to me by my friend Anita Thomas
I had a very special teacher in high school many years ago whose
husband unexpectedly died suddenly of a heart attack.
About a week after his death, she shared some of her insight
with a classroom of students. As the late afternoon sunlight
came streaming in through the classroom windows and the class was
nearly over, she moved a few things aside on the edge of her desk
and sat down there.
With a gentle look of reflection on her face,
she paused and said, "Before class is over, I would like to share
with all of you a thought that is unrelated to class, but which
I feel is very important. Each of us is put here on earth to
learn, share, love, appreciate and give of ourselves. None of us
knows when this fantastic experience will end. It can be taken
away at any moment. Perhaps this is God's way of telling us that
we must make the most out of every single day."
Her eyes beginning to water, she went
on, "So I would like you all to make me a promise. From now
on, on your way to school, or on your way home, find something beautiful
to notice. It doesn't have to be something you see-it could
be a scent-perhaps of freshly baked bread wafting out of someone's
house, or it could be the sound of the breeze slightly
rustling the leaves in the trees, or the way the morning light
catches one autumn leaf as it falls gently to the ground. Please,
look for these things, and cherish them. For, although it may
sound trite to some, these things are the "stuff" of life.
The little things we are put here on earth to enjoy.
The things we often take for granted. We must make it important
to notice them, for at any time ... it can all be taken away."
The class was completely quiet.
We all picked up our books and filed out of the room silently. That
afternoon, I noticed more things on my way home from school than
I had that whole semester.
Every once in a while, I think of that
teacher and remember what an impression she made on all of us, and
I try to appreciate all of those things that sometimes we all overlook.
Take notice of something special you see on your lunch hour today.
Go barefoot. Or walk on the beach at sunset. Stop off on the
way home tonight to get a double-dip ice
cream cone. For as we get older, it is not the things we
did that we often regret, but the things we didn't do.
Charles Plumb was a US Navy jet pilot in Vietnam.
After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air
missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was
captured and spent 6 years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He
survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from that experience.
One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at
another table came up and said, "You're Plumb! You flew jet
fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were
shot down!"
"How in the world did you know that?" asked Plumb.
"I packed your parachute," the man replied. Plumb gasped in surprise and
gratitude. The man pumped his hand and said, "I guess it worked!"
Plumb assured him, "It sure did. If your chute hadn't worked, I wouldn't
be here today."
Plumb couldn't sleep that night, thinking about
that man. Plumb says, "I kept wondering what he had looked like in
a Navy uniform: a white hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers.
I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said 'Good
morning, how are you?' or anything because, you see, I was a fighter
pilot and he was just a sailor."
Plumb thought of the many hours the sailor had spent
at a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the
shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each
time the fate of someone he didn't know. Now, Plumb asks his audience,
"Who's packing your parachute?" Everyone has someone who provides what
they need to make it through the
day. He also points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when
his plane was shot down over enemy territory -- he needed his physical
parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual
parachute. He called on all these supports before reaching safety.
Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives
us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say hello, please,
or thank you, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened
to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason.
As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people
who pack your parachutes.
A group of students were asked to list what they thought were the present
Seven Wonders of the World. Though there was some
disagreement, the following got the most votes:
1. Egypt's Great Pyramids
2. Taj Mahal
3. Grand Canyon
4. Panama Canal
5. Empire State Building
6. St. Peter's Basilica
7. China's Great Wall
While gathering the votes, the teacher noted that one quiet student hadn't turned in her paper yet. So she asked the girl if she was having trouble with her list. The girl replied, "Yes, a little. I couldn't quite make up my mind because there were so many."
The teacher said, "Well, tell us what you have, and maybe we can help."
The girl hesitated, then read, "I think the Seven Wonders of the World are:
1. to touch
2. to taste
3. to see
4. to hear
She hesitated a little, and then added,
5. to feel
6. to laugh
7. and to love."
The room was so full of silence you could have heard a pin drop. Those
things we overlook as simple and ordinary are truly wondrous. A gentle
reminder that the most precious things in life cannot be bought and are
not created by humans.
CARROT, AN EGG, OR A COFFEE BEAN?
A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life
and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going
to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling.
It seemed as one problem was solved a new one arose. Her mother took her
to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water. In the first, she placed
carrots, in the second she
placed eggs and in the last she placed ground coffee beans.
She let them sit and boil without saying a word. In about twenty minutes
she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them
in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she
ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her daughter,
she asked, "Tell me, what do you
see?" "Carrots, eggs, and coffee," the daughter replied. The
mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. The daughter
did and noted that they got soft. Mother then asked her to take an egg
and break it. After pulling off the shell, daughter observed
the hard-boiled egg. Finally, Mother asked her to sip the coffee.
The daughter smiled, as she tasted its rich aroma. The
daughter then asked. "What's the point, mother?" Her mother
explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity-boiling
water-but each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard
and unrelenting. However after being subjected to the boiling water, it
softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell
had protected its liquid interior. But, after sitting through the
boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were
unique, however. After they were in the boiling water they had changed
the water. "Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks
on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg, or a coffee
bean?" Think of this: Which am I? Am I the carrot that seems strong, but
with pain and adversity, do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?
Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat?
Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a break-up, a financial hardship
or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff? Does
my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a
stiff spirit and a hardened heart? Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean
actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain.
When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If
you are like the bean, when things are at
their worst, you get better and change the situation around
you. When the hours are the darkest and trials are their greatest do you
elevate to another level? How do you handle adversity? ARE YOU A CARROT,
AN EGG, OR A
COFFEE BEAN?
God Works In Mysterious Ways
-- Author Unknown
I got this one from a women who just passed through my website and sent
it to me. Funny how people just sort of wander through your life,
make a connection and then go their own way. It's what life is full
of and I really love it. Thanks Sherry Fial!! Come again some time.
It was an unusually cold day for the month of May. Spring had arrived
and everything was alive with color. But a cold front
from the North had brought winter's chill back to Indiana. I sat, with
two friends, in the picture window of a quaint restaurant
just off the corner of the towns-square. The food and the company were
both especially good that day.
As we talked, my attention was drawn outside, across the street. There,
walking into town, was a man who appeared to be
carrying all his worldly goods on his back. He was carrying, a well-worn
sign that read, "I will work for food." My heart sank. I
brought him to the attention of my friends and noticed that others
around us had stopped eating to focus on him. Heads
moved in a mixture of sadness and disbelief. We continued with our
meal, but his image lingered in my mind. We finished
our meal and went our separate ways.
I had errands to do and quickly set out to accomplish them. I glanced
toward the town square, looking somewhat
halfheartedly for the strange visitor. I was fearful, knowing that
seeing him again would call some response. I drove through
town and saw nothing of him. I made some purchases at a store and got
back in my car.
Deep within me, the Spirit of God kept speaking to me: "Don't go back
to the office until you've at least driven once more
around the square." And so, with some hesitancy, I headed back into
town. As I turned the square's third corner. I saw him.
He was standing on the steps of the storefront church, going through
his sack. I stopped and looked, feeling both compelled
to speak to him, yet wanting to drive on.
The empty parking space on the corner seemed to be a sign from God:
an invitation to park. I pulled in, got out and
approached the town's newest visitor. "Looking for the pastor?" I asked.
"Not really," he replied, "just resting."
"Have you eaten today?" "Oh, I ate something early this morning."
"Would you like to have lunch with me?"
"Do you have some work I could do for you?"
"No work," I replied. "I commute here to work from the city, but I would like to take you to lunch."
"Sure," he replied with a smile.
As he began to gather his things. I asked some surface questions. "Where are you headed?"
"St. Louis."
"Where you from?" "Oh, all over; mostly Florida."
"How long you been walking?"
"Fourteen years," came the reply.
I knew I had met someone unusual. We sat across from each other in the
same restaurant I had left earlier. His face was
weathered slightly beyond his 38 years. His eyes were dark yet clear,
and he spoke with an eloquence and articulation that
was startling. He removed his jacket to reveal a bright red T-shirt
that said, "Jesus is The Never Ending Story."
Then Daniel's story began to unfold. He had seen rough times early in
life. He'd made some wrong choices and reaped the
consequences. Fourteen years earlier, while backpacking across the
country, he had stopped on the beach in Daytona.
He tried to hire on with some men who were putting up a large tent and
some equipment. A concert, he thought. He was
hired, but the tent would not house a concert but revival services,
and in those services he saw life more clearly.
He gave his life over to God. "Nothing's been the same since," he said,
"I felt the Lord telling me to keep walking, and so I
did, some 14 years now."
"Ever think of stopping?" I asked.
"Oh, once in a while, when it seems to get the best of me.
But God has given me this calling. I give out Bibles.
That's what's in my sack. I work to buy food and Bibles, and I give them out when His Spirit leads."
I sat amazed. My homeless friend was not homeless. He was on a mission
and lived this way by choice. The question
burned inside for a moment and then I asked: "What's it like?"
"What?"
"To walk into a town carrying all your things on your back and to show your sign?"
"Oh, it was humiliating at first. People would stare and make comments.
Once someone tossed a piece of half-eaten bread and made a gesture that
certainly didn't make me feel welcome. But then
it became humbling to realize that God was using me to touch lives
and change people's concepts of other folks like me."
My concept was changing, too. We finished our dessert and gathered his
things. Just outside the door, he paused. He
turned to me and said, "Come, Ye blessed of my Father, and inherit
the kingdom I've prepared for you. For when I was
hungry you gave me food, when I was thirsty you gave me drink, a stranger
and you took me in."
I felt as if we were on holy ground.
"Could you use another Bible?" I asked.
He said he preferred a certain translation. It traveled well and was
not too heavy. It was also his personal favorite. "I've read
through it 14 times," he said. "I'm not sure we've got one of those,
but let's stop by our church and see."
I was able to find my new friend a Bible that would do well, and he seemed very grateful.
"Where you headed from here?"
"Well, I found this little map on the back of this amusement park coupon."
"Are you hoping to hire on there for awhile?"
"No, I just figure I should go there. I figure someone under that star
right there needs a Bible, so that's where I'm going next."
He smiled, and the warmth of his spirit radiated the sincerity of his
mission.
I drove him back to the town-square where we'd met two hours earlier,
and as we drove, it started raining. We parked and
unloaded his things.
Would you sign my autograph book?" he asked.
"I like to keep messages from folks I meet."
I wrote in his little book that his commitment to his calling had touched
my life. I encouraged him to stay strong. And I left him
with a verse of scripture from Jeremiah, "I know the plans I have for
you," declared the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not
to harm you. Plans to give you a future and a hope."
"Thanks, man," he said. "I know we just met and we're really just strangers, but I love you."
"I know," I said, "I love you, too."
"The Lord is good."
"Yes, He is. How long has it been since someone hugged you?" I asked.
"A long time," he replied.
And so on the busy street corner in the drizzling rain, my new friend
and I embraced, and I felt deep inside that I had been
changed. He put his things on his back, smiled his winning smile and
said, "See you in the New Jerusalem."
"I'll be there!" was my reply.
He began his journey again. He headed away with his sign dangling from
his bed roll and pack of Bibles. He stopped,
turned and said, "When you see something that makes you think of me,
will you pray for me?"
"You bet," I shouted back, "God bless."
"God bless." And that was the last I saw of him. Late that evening as
I left my office, the wind blew strong. The cold front had
settled hard upon the town. I bundled up and hurried to my car. As
I sat back and reached for the emergency brake, I saw
them... a pair of well-worn brown work gloves neatly laid over the
length of the handle. I picked them up and thought of my
friend and wondered if his hands would stay warm that night without
them. I remembered his words: "If you see something
that makes you think of me, will you pray for me?"
Today his gloves lie on my desk in my office. They help me to see the
world and its people in a new way, and they help me
remember those two hours with my unique friend and to pray for his
ministry.
"See you in the New Jerusalem," he said.
Yes, Daniel, I know I will.
If you like these stories please let me know at J-Edwards1@neiu.edu If you know of any other great up-lifting stories like these, send them to me, please.
