please read for Inspiration

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Best,

coincidence again My buddy and I at work were just talking about that song Thursday. I posted coincidences in the General recovery site told them about the bible verses and the Birds song coming on

I just try and maintain a spiritual connection. It's really amazing the feeling I have being a little closer with God.
Keping my self humble and a stop gap on the tear ducts.

BEST

((HUGS))

wishing you and yours another day with Christ


chris

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THE OPEN DOOR
By Janice Price


There was a moment of panic when I walked into the living room. Crystal, the oldest male cat, was sitting on the wrong side of the front screen door. Obviously, I had locked but not properly closed the door after I accepted a package from the Federal Express delivery man.

The door was ajar and Crystal was turning his head slowly back and forth, looking past the front porch steps and then back into the house. He has been a house cat for all but the first few weeks of his life, and although he is the top cat inside, his outdoor survival skills have dulled after six years of his food being served in a bowl. Also, he wasn’t wearing a collar with his rabies tag attached, so he would be fair game for an Animal Control Officer to pick him up as a stray if he wandered off to see the outside world.

While Crystal’s head was still turning slowly from the porch steps to inside the house as he contemplated which direction to go, I calmly walked over and brought him inside. He accepted this without a fuss, content to have the decision made for him.

The moment of panic turned into a smile as I thought of how we all have to make decisions at open doors at various times in life. When we are young, our parents watch over us and make decisions for us, assuming the role of protector and conscience, but their goal should be to teach us to make responsible decisions on our own.

One of your classmates offers you a cigarette. You know it’s addictive and bad for your health. The door is ajar. Do you light the cigarette or do you say, “No, thanks.”

Well, you made the wrong choice that time. Now you are a new parent. You know second-hand smoke is unhealthy for your baby. The door is ajar again. Will you make the right choice this time?

You take your first drink and then a second. Now your drinking is tearing apart your family and interfering with your ability to do your job. The door is ajar. Will you continue in denial of your problem or will you take that first step to get help?

Your email box fills with spam messages daily. Many of the messages have lewd titles in the subject lines. Are you going to delete all of the messages without opening any of them? The door is ajar to temptation. Which side of the door will you choose?

Are you a drug addict, a wife beater, a child or elder abuser, a chronic liar, hard-hearted and unforgiving, an adulterer, a slacker, a workaholic, or a – (fill in the blank)? If so, you have stood at the open door and made wrong choices that have affected your own life and the lives of those around you. Perhaps you are reaping the physical consequences of your actions: you are serving a prison sentence, your mate has left you, your children or your entire family have cut you out of their lives.

God does not take sin lightly, yet He has made provision for repentance, forgiveness and newness of life. We all make numerous choices, some good and some we would prefer to forget. Some we can never forget because repentance and forgiveness of sin does not pay the physical death penalty for a murderer or pay the physical debt to society for another crime. We can’t undo any physical, mental or emotional damage we have inflicted on others either.

In Revelation 3:20, Christ says, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, “I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.”

I scooped up Crystal while he was still debating which side of the open door he wanted to be on and trying to work up the courage to explore the unknown. I’m past the point where someone else can make decisions for me. I have to make my own decisions and take responsibility for them.

I make a lot of mistakes and it might be hard for others to tell sometimes, but I know which side of the open door I want to be on - the same side as Jesus. What about you

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GROWING OLD
>
>
>
>
>There are some warm and comfortable thoughts here, whatever your age range.....it's going to be a good day.

>The other day a young person asked me how I felt about being old. I was taken aback, for I do not think of myself as old. Upon seeing my reaction, she was immediately embarrassed, but I explained that it was
an interesting question, and I would ponder it, and let her know.
>
>Old age, I decided, is a gift. I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body! I sometime despair over my body-- but I don't agonize over it for long.
>
>I would never trade my amazing friends, my wonderful life, my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly. As I've aged, I've become more kind to myself, and less critical of myself. I've become my own friend. I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie, or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't
need, but looks so avante garde on my patio.
I am entitled to overeat, to be messy, to be extravagant. I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon; before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.
>
>Whose business is it if I choose to read until 4 am, and sleep until noon? I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 50's & 60s, and if I at the same time wish to weep over a lost love, I will.

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten - and I eventually remember the important things.
>

>Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A
heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.
>
>
>I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turn gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their
hair could turn silver. I can say "no", and mean it. I can say "yes" and mean it.
As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care
>less about what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong.
>
>So, to answer the question, I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be.
For the first time in my life, I don't have to have a reason to do the things I want to do. If I want to
play games on the computer all day, lay on the couch and watch old movies for hours or don't want to go to the beach or a movie, I have
earned that right. I have put in my time doing everything for others, so now I can be a bit selfish without feeling guilty.
>
>
>I sometimes feel sorry for the young. They face a far different world than I knew growing up, where we feared the law, respected the old, the flag, our country. And they too will grow old someday.
>
>I am grateful to have been born when I was, into a kinder, gentler world. Yes, I like being old!

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The Best Prayer I Have Heard In A Long Time







Heavenly Father, Help us remember that the jerk who cut us off in

traffic last night is a single mother who worked nine hours that day

and is rushing home to cook dinner, help with homework, do the laundry

and spend a few precious moments with her children.



Help us to remember that the pierced,

tattooed, disinterested young man who can't make change correctly is a

worried 19-year-old college student, balancing his apprehension over

final exams with his fear of not getting his student loans for next

semester.



Remind us, Lord, that the scary looking bum, begging for money in the

same spot every day (who really ought to get a job!) is a slave to

addictions that we can only imagine in our worst nightmares.



Help us to remember that the old couple walking annoyingly slow through



the store aisles and blocking our shopping progress are savoring this

moment, knowing that, based on the biopsy report she got back last

week, this will be the last year that they go shopping together.



Heavenly Father, remind us each day that, of all the gifts you give us,



The greatest gift is love. It is not enough to share that love with

those we hold dear. Open our hearts not to just those who are close to

us, but to all humanity. Let us be slow to judge and quick to forgive,

show patience, empathy and love.

[CAPTAINZING2000]

THE STORM
From Billie, author unknown

Years ago, I was enthralled as I listened to a pastor who for several years had faithfully served the church. His executive responsibilities had taken him all over this country. As he concluded his message, he told of one of the most frightening yet thought-provoking experiences of his life.

He had been on a long flight from one place to another. The first warning of the approaching problems came when the sign on the airplane flashed on: Fasten your seat belts. Then, after a while, a calm voice said, "We shall not be serving the beverages at this time as we are expecting a little turbulence. Please be sure your seat belt is fastened."

As he looked around the aircraft, it became obvious that many of the passengers were becoming apprehensive. Later, the voice of the announcer said, "We are so sorry that we are unable to serve the meal at this time. The turbulence is still ahead of us."

And then the storm broke. The ominous cracks of thunder could be heard even above the roar of the engines. Lightening lit up the darkening skies, and within moments that great plane was like a cork tossed around on a celestial ocean. One moment the airplane was lifted on terrific currents of air; the next, it dropped as if it were about to crash.

The pastor confessed that he shared the discomfort and fear of those around him. He said, "As I looked around the plane, I could see that nearly all the passengers were upset and alarmed. Some were praying. The future seemed ominous and many were wondering if they would make it through the storm.

Then, I suddenly saw a little girl. Apparently the storm meant nothing to her. She had tucked her feet beneath her as she sat on her seat; she was reading a book and every thing within her small world was calm and orderly. Sometimes she closed her eyes, then she would read again; then she would straighten her legs, but worry and fear were not in her world. When the plane was being buffeted by the terrible storm, when it lurched this way and that, as it rose and fell with frightening severity, when all the adults were scared half to death, that marvelous child was completely composed and unafraid." The minister could hardly believe his eyes.

It was not surprising therefore, that when the plane finally reached its destination and all the passengers were hurrying to disembark, our pastor lingered to speak to the girl whom he had watched for such a long time. Having commented about the storm and behavior of the plane, he asked why she had not been afraid.

The sweet child replied, "Sir, my Dad is the pilot, and he is taking me home."

There are many kinds of storms that buffet us.

Physical, mental, financial, domestic, and many other storms can easily and quickly darken our skies and throw our plane into apparently uncontrollable movement. We have all known such times, and let us be honest and confess, it is much easier to be at rest when our feet are on the ground than when we are being tossed about a darkened sky.

Let us remember: Our Father is the Pilot. He is in control and He is taking us home

[CAPTAINZING2000]

SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN
by Maria Harden


David died this week. He was just three years old. I didn't know him, but the picture in the newspaper showed him as a tousle-haired little boy with a shy, engaging smile. I don't normally read obituaries, but the sweetness of his smile captivated me. "Died in the arms of his parents after a brief and mysterious illness," it read. As the youngest of five children, David must have been very loved. I can't even begin to imagine the unspeakable sorrow engulfing his family. In lieu of flowers, his parents' only request was that you speak gently to your children.

Speak gently to your children. What a powerful statement.

As we teach our children the potency of the English language, they learn that words can be a poison arrow through the heart, or a soothing balm to the soul. Words said unthinkingly can harm an impressionable child. Words also have the power to console, heal, encourage, and uplift.

What a gift for any child, to have this legacy because David had died, and this was his parents' wish. Flowers may be a temporary comfort, but a kindness done for a child will have positive and long-term effects.

Caught up in our daily existence, we sometimes take for granted the precious little ones who are a part of our lives. Life itself is fleeting, like a wisp of wind that is suddenly stilled.

I was reminded of a recent shopping expedition in Wal-Mart, where I was shaken to overhear an angry confrontation between a mother and daughter, words that made me wonder what could have possibly aroused such anger.

A little dark-haired girl of about six years old was cowering amidst a display of winter clothing. She was trying to wedge herself as far back into the clothes as she could. The mother was clearly out of control, unaware or perhaps not caring that anyone in the vicinity could witness her tirade.

"Melanie! When I tell you to come with me, I mean it! I am sick and tired of you not listening to me. I am your mother! Not your friend! Not your cousin! Your mother! Do you hear me? You have to listen to me!"

Her voice escalated shrilly as she ranted on, ending with, "If you don't start listening to me, I am going to slap you silly!"

With those words, the mother's hand snaked out to hit her daughter. The girl slunk further into the protection of the clothes, but this only enraged her mother even more. She yanked Melanie's arm, and I heard the sting of a slap. Melanie cried out, and I caught a glimpse of tears and fear on her face as she struggled unsuccessfully to escape. My heart ached for the child who was at the receiving end of her mother's wrath. I felt ashamed for the mother, and embarrassed that I didn't know what to do. Glancing around, I hoped someone would intervene. No one did. Hesitating for just a second, I made my decision and firmly took a step forward.

My hesitation lost me the chance. Mother and daughter were headed in another direction, the mother doggedly stomping along, her face like a storm cloud. Melanie trailed behind, looking miserable, fighting back tears. I stopped, and with a heavy heart, watched them go. Suddenly I didn't feel like shopping anymore.

The old adage, "sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me," ran through my head. That rhyme is a lie. Words can wound as surely as a blow. Depression or mental problems can be accountable for some people's actions, but that does not justify abuse of any kind. I pray that one day Melanie's mother doesn't have to experience the loss of her child, and then live with regret.

Imagine if we were to remove such negative phrases as, "Don't bother me now, I'm busy," from our vocabulary, and replace them with, "Of course I have time to listen to you." What if we banished blame and hostility, and welcomed compassion and respect, would the benefits not be twofold? Our fulfillment would be complete if we cherished the moments that matter, practiced forgiveness, and above all, always
counted our blessings.

David's parents have the right idea. Speak gently to your children today. You may not have another chance.

[CAPTAINZING2000]

ARE WE LISTENING?
By Janice Price


We all want to be heard when we speak, to know another person is listening to what we say and understanding us. Communication is important between family members, friends, co-workers, and even between the animals in this house.

I am really pleased with how well my pets get along. The cats know the difference between a canine feigned and a threatening growl. With a threatening growl, the cat knows he better let go of that bone, remove his teeth from the dog’s ear, or take his head out of the dog’s food bowl - pronto! And the dogs know the difference between a playful swipe of a cat’s paw and the claws-out swat of an irate feline. They might not speak the same language but they communicate.

People are often a different story. Very few people actually listen to what is being said. They hear what they expect to hear, what they want to hear, or whatever agrees with the ramblings in their own mind.

There is the out of range listener. While someone is speaking, this person mentally prepares a shopping list, balances the checkbook or remembers a story that will top yours, whether a tale of woe or riches.

“You had an ingrown toenail? Well, let me tell you all the details about my hernia operation.”

There is the clairvoyant listener. The other day I started to tell a story to someone who interrupted me after the second sentence to give a negative opinion on the ending of the story. This is a regular thing with this person. I start to talk and I’m corrected, given advice or told what to do before the other person even knows what the subject is. To make matters worse, the response has little or nothing to do with the outcome.

“I was walking down Maple Drive, noticed a $100 bill in the street-” “What wonderful news! I know you can use the extra money.” – (“bent to pick it up, was hit by a bus and broke both legs. I’m calling you from my hospital room.”)

“I have been out of work for two years-” “I’m so sorry. You must be terribly discouraged. Perhaps my psychiatrist could help you cope with your depression.” - (“but I was just hired at four times my old salary and I will be working at my dream job.”)

“I’m not one of those people who thinks every dog should have at least one litter-” “Oh, that’s great. So, when are the puppies due?” – (“so I just had her spayed,”)

Then, there is the Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet!) personality from the British sitcom “Keeping Up Appearances.” Talking to a plant would produce a better response.

“Hyacinth, I can’t come over for coffee right now. An ambulance is on the way to take my husband to the hospital.” “That’s nice, dear. The coffee will be ready in five minutes. Do put on a nice dress before you come over.”

There is, of course, the non-listener. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention. Would you repeat the last witness’ testimony, please?”

There are many other types of non-listeners. A true listener should be valued as a rare jewel.

Our listening habits carry over into our spiritual lives too. When God speaks, are we listening, or are we daydreaming, planning another good work to do for church, or assuming we know better than God and skipping the listening altogether?

When we read the history of the church and note the confusion in religious teachings today, we wonder how Scripture could be so confusing, giving birth to so many different beliefs, including mainstream religions and off the planet cult beliefs. But is it that Scripture is confusing or that we are confusing Scripture because we aren’t listening to what God is actually trying to communicate to us through his word?

John calls Jesus the Word. (John 1: 1,14) Others have called Jesus a prophet, a good man, a sinner, an imposter, and even a homosexual. Jesus knows firsthand what it is like to speak and not be heard or to be heard but not understood. He has come into contact with every type of listener that exists. Some heard what he said, believed, and lives were changed. Some heard what they wanted to hear and used his words as a Gimme License. (Gimme this, gimme that.) Others twisted his teachings to grow rich and powerful. His words have been used to institute total control over and sometimes physical, mental or spiritual abuse against those under authority.

The Bible has a lot to say about hearing, but hearing isn’t enough. Are we listening? Because if we aren’t paying attention, we won’t understand what we’re hearing. And if we’re only listening with half an ear, so to speak, we will miss his still small voice when he answers our prayers to guide us and direct our paths.

Sometimes I have been preoccupied, ill, overworked, or self-centered. Those have been some of my past excuses for not listening. I’m determined to do better today and in the future. I don’t want to miss anything God has to say to me. What about you?

The Word says, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” (Matthew 11:15)

[CAPTAINZING2000]

PENNIES, LET THERE ALWAYS BE PENNIES
From Chris

I took my last drink. I, like countless other people around the world had to admit, that drinking was bad for me. I'd woke up from a jail cell, all hung over. From that time, I knew it was time to quit drinking. I started attending AA. AA brought me back to God. I'm so thankful for being back with God. The road is lonely without him.

There's been stories of how people find pennies and make a wish when they find them. I find a penny on the ground, I bend down and always remember what it says on the coin. IN GOD WE TRUST. Bending down to pick up the coin has kept me humble and thankful.

This little habit of mine has really taken off. A lot of my friends are reminded as well. Last year at a ILLINOIS foot ball game, I was overwhelmed by the amount of drinking at the stadium. I sat in my seat for the first half and went to get a bottle of soda. Seems like everyone in the crowd smelled of alcohol. I kept praying, I wish I could find a penny. I bought my soda and headed back to my seat.

When, I got to my seat there was a penny on my seat. No one else but me and that penny. Some might scoff at this but, I do believe God hears our prayers.

God Bless and thanks for letting me share.
Chris

Everyone looks for miracles ... They all want something BIG! This might be the smallest of miracles. 1 cent. But it is also the largest. Because it centered Chris on God and His love ... 2jesus.

Back to Inspirational Stories Index Page.

If you have a good story please send it 2Jesus.

I think, I shared it b 4 but, I'm not sure


chris

[CAPTAINZING2000]

TOILET SEAT BLUES
by Kathe Campbell

Old college buddies were coming to our mountain and as I spiffied up both bathrooms it seemed that after 18 years both oak toilet seats were looking mighty weary. No amount of cleaning was going to heal a few cracks which, heaven forbid, could give way leaving my enthroned darlins' mired amongst oak splinter wreckage in toilet water. Mercy, what an awful thought!

The newspaper advertised genuine oak toilet seats on sale for the grand opening of our new super Wal-mart. At only $7.88 each, I chose two lovely looking commode toppers for my basket filled to the hilt with groceries, bird seed, a plastic bag of fancy guppies, camera batteries, a good corn broom, and a new 18 hr. bra. Umph!

To my utter joy, the next morning my husband, Ken, announced he had work scheduled in town as I all but shoved him out the door so I could plunge into my project. The new oaken settees were a perfect match for my log house. I couldn't recall when I'd been so excited over the prospect of demonstrating to Ken a happy homemaker maintenance moment installed all by myself, with one left hand yet.

After gathering a dozen or so tools from the garage I got down on my old arthritic knees to ascertain what size tool I would need to extricate the old bolts. Not even one of my carefully chosen tools
fit. Back to the garage for another handful of tools and this time I hit the jackpot. Using a whatchamacallit round-ended gadget, it only took 20 minutes to dislodge the first bolt off an endless three inch nut. Fifteen years had set that bolt with Schwarzeneggerian strength. So after endless grunting and groaning, I finally announced to the toilet, "I'll be back," as I retreated to the living room couch with a cappuccino. At least I had the right tool. Only three more bolts to go.

I had designed my big bathroom with a cute little niche for the toilet, but no matter how much light my fancy-schmancy wagon wheel light put out, I couldn't focus beneath that foreboding cold fixture. I grabbed my reading glasses and our best flashlight, stood it up on end, and was happily making progress when the phone rang. I raised myself to my knees and to my horror, discovered my prosthesis was submerged down the hole inside the porcelain receptacle helping me hang on for dear life. Good Lord, how gross! Well there was certainly no need to reveal that little tidbit to Ken, or anyone else for that matter.

As it was my afternoon to answer the office phone, it seemed apparent I should bring the portable phone in the bathroom with me. I set it up atop the tank for easy access and as it rang once again, I lurched and fumbled. PLUNK, in it fell emitting a sorrowful brrgggggg ~~~~~brrggggg. I dove in with my left hand, punched the orange light, answered "Big Sky Adjusters, this is Kathe," and with great relief, someone from the black lagoon answered back. I wanted desperately to laugh hysterically, as is par for the course in most of my life's trials, but I took care of business most professionally taking notes on damp toilet paper whilst straining through drippy toilet water designer glasses.

The main toilet seat was finished and it was truly a splendid sight. Having conquered the tricks and journeyman skills of a specialized trade I changed the seat in the guest bath in jig time. My entire project only took from 10:00 AM to 3:35 PM and all Ken had to say was, "See ya got the new seats on," to which I disdainfully replied . . . . . "I'm pooped, old man! I aim to please 'round here, so you please aim too!"

Have toilet seats, will travel!

[CAPTAINZING2000]

"Etta And The Beer Truck"
by Chuck Dishno


Bly was a small logging town in Southern Oregon with a population of about 500 people in the late 30's and early 40's. Bly didn't have any street names or house numbers and the mail was delivered to the Post Office where every family had a P.O. Box. It was a great gathering place for the ladies to stand around and wait for the Postmistress, (yes, they were called postmistresses then) Mrs. Casebeer, to sort all the mail into the boxes.

Much gossip was spread during these daily sessions. When the mail was sorted, Mrs. Casebeer would open up the "window" so that one could collect packages, buy stamps or do any other post office business. This was the signal that the gab session was over for the day. It became such a ritual that sometimes my mom and grandmother would both go and the worst thing is they would drag me along. Now I wish I had a tape recorder but they hadn't been invented then, at least not the portable ones. I was 11 years old in 1945, and I sure heard a lot of "stories" about the wayward men and loose women of Bly.

One day my grandmother, Etta, who lived with us for about 25 years, walked down to the post office, a distance of only a few blocks but on the corner, she had to walk by Jack's Place, one of the 6 or 7 beer joints in town. Etta always wore a little hat and a gust of wind blew it off and under a beer truck that was parked in front of Jack's Place.

My little grandmother promptly got down on her hands and knees and crawled under the truck. She found her hat, picked it up and put it between her teeth then proceeded to crawl out the other side just in time for some of the ladies on their way to the post office to see her. They said, "Why Mrs. Hartman, what are you doing under that beer truck?" It must have looked like she had been on an all night "bender" and was coming out of the beer joint. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth as grandma never touched a drop of liquor in her life. But, needless to say, this provided much conversation for the gang at the post office for some time to come.

[CAPTAINZING2000]

The Day I Finally Cried

I didn't cry when I learned that I was the parent of a mentally handicapped child. I just sat still and didn't say anything while my husband and I were informed that two-year-old Kristi was - as we suspected - retarded.

"Go ahead and cry," the doctor advised kindly. "Helps prevent serious emotional difficulties."

Serious difficulties not withstanding, I couldn't cry then nor during the months that followed. When Kristi was old enough to attend school, we enrolled her in our neighborhood kindergarten at age seven.

It would have been comforting to cry that day I left her in that room full of self-assured, eager, alert five-year-olds. Kristi had spent hours upon hours playing by herself, but this moment, when she was the different child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever known.

However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her school and to her schoolmates too. When boasting of their own accomplishments, Kristi's classmates always took pains to praise her as well: "Kristi got all her spelling words right today." No one bothered to add that her spelling list was easier then anyone else's.

During Kristi's second year in school, she faced a very traumatic experience. The big public event of the term was a competition based on a culmination of the year's music and physical education activities. Kristi was way behind in both music and motor coordination. My husband and I dreaded the day as well.

On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to be sick. Desperately I wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi fail in a gymnasium filled with parents, students and teachers? What a simple solution it would be just to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn't matter. But my conscience wouldn't let me off that easily. So I practically shoved a pale, reluctant Kristi onto the school bus and proceeded to be sick myself.

Just as I had forced my daughter to go to school, now I forced myself to go to the program. It seemed that it would never be time for Kristi's group to perform. When at last they did, I knew why Kristi had been worried. Her class was divided into relay teams. With her limp and slow, clumsy reactions, she would surely hold up her team.

The performance went surprising well, though, until it was time for the gunnysack race. Now each child had to climb into the sack from a standing position, hop to a goal line, return and climb out of the sack.

I watched Kristi standing near the end of her line of players, looking frantic.

But as Kristi's turn to practice neared, a change took place in her team. The tallest boy in the line stepped behind Kristi and placed his hands on her waist. Two other boys stood a little ahead of her. The moment the player in front of Kristi stepped for the sack, those two boys grabbed the sack and held it open while the tall boy lifted Kristi and dropped her neatly into it. A girl in front of Kristi took her hand and supported her briefly until Kristi gained her balance. Then off she hopped, smiling and proud.

Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and parents, I crept off by myself to thank God for the warm, understanding people in life who make it possible for my disabled daughter to be like her fellow human beings.

Then I finally cried.
--Author unknown

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Things My Mother Taught Me

My Mother taught me LOGIC...
"If you fall off that swing and break your neck, you can't go to the store with me."

My Mother taught me MEDICINE...
"If you don't stop crossing your eyes, they're going to freeze that way."

My Mother taught me TO THINK AHEAD...
"If you don't pass your spelling test, you'll never get a good job!"

My Mother taught me INTUITION...
"Put your sweater on; don't you think that I know when you're cold?"

My Mother taught me TO MEET A CHALLENGE...
"What were you thinking? Answer me when I talk to you...Don't talk back to me!"

My Mother taught me HUMOR...
"When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don't come running to me."

My Mother taught me how to BECOME AN ADULT...
"If you don't eat your vegetables, you'll never grow up.

My mother taught me about GENETICS...
"You are just like your father!"

My mother taught me about my ROOTS...
"Do you think you were born in a barn?"

My mother taught me about the WISDOM of AGE...
"When you get to be my age, you will understand."

My mother taught me about ANTICIPATION...
"Just wait until your father gets home."

My mother taught me about JUSTICE...
"One day you'll have kids, and I hope they turn out just like YOU...then you'll see what it's like."

And she thought no one was listening!

Truth is, we all learned a lot from our mothers (though we never would have admitted it growing up!). What a double blessing those of us enjoy who had a Christian mother from whom we learned things of a spiritual nature.

"...I call to remembrance the genuine faith that is in you, which dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice, and I am persuaded is in you also......from childhood you have known the Holy Scriptures, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus." (2 Timothy 1:5; 3:15).

Take a moment to give thanks to God for all that you learned from your mother. And to a very special lady who will have the opportunity to read this thought: I love you, Mom!
from Alan Smith

[CAPTAINZING2000]

1 We are sitting at lunch when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family." "We're taking a survey," she says, half-joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"

"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.

"I know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations...."

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of childbearing will heal, but that becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a souffle or her best crystal without a moment's hesitation.

I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for child care, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

I want my daughter to know that everyday decisions will no longer be routine. That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the
prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom. However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years-not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor. My daughter's relationship with her husband will change, but not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know that she
will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving. I hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to my children's future. I want to describe to my daughter
the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or a cat for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real, it actually hurts.

My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. "You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reach across the table, squeeze my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings. This blessed gift from God . . .that of being a Mother.

[CAPTAINZING2000]

I was alone on the flight home after visiting my children. It was
late and it was going to be a long flight. A graying "senior" sat
down in the seat next to me. They seemed friendly enough, but I
really wasn't interested in talking.


My mind returned to that familiar rut: the last years seemed like a
nightmare. Betrayed and powerless through a bitter break up. Maybe
nuclear explosion would be more accurate! The worst part had been
my children. I watched in horror as my spouse and then the courts
seemed intent on taking them from me. I saw their tears. I felt
caught in a piece of farm machinery -- and couldn't get free. I
loved the kids, but I could only see them occasionally -- it was a
gnawing pain. At times I was so mad ... why those dirty $#%#$@!


"Pardon me .." the person next to me spoke. Stunned, I realized I
had mumbled those last few words out loud -- maybe I was a
certified nut case! "Sorry," I said, "just thinking out loud."


"I guess so," they said, and I could see a smile. Well, we got to
talking and it all just sort of came out: the anxiety, the pain,
the frustration, and worst of all -- not knowing what the future
would bring. You know the story. By the time I was done we had
landed! Toward the end I had mentioned it was hard to have faith.
"What is God thinking of?" I asked.


My friend took a long pause at that and I thought, "Oh, Oh -- I
should have known it, must be a minister or something -- now I am
going to get the conversion speech -- good thing the flight is
over!"


They chuckled a little and said, "Well, I'm sure God loves
you very much, and your children, and also your ex-spouse." I
swallowed a bit hard at that last one. "I'm sure God sees the real
goodness in all of you." Dropping their voice a bit, "I'm
sure God also has a long view of eternity which might be hard for
a living person to understand."


"I'm sure everything is going to be all right." They stopped.


Easy for you to say, I thought. It got quiet as we walked off the
jetway into the terminal. I felt I might have upset them. "Sorry,"
I said, and to make small talk, "gee, I didn't even ask your name."


"Who me? I guess you can call me God, the creator of heaven and
earth. Is there anything else you would like to ask?" Again, the
big smile.


Well, I don't know why, but I didn't doubt it. It was starting to
feel like an episode out of the 'Twilight Zone' -- come to think
of it, the Airline Captain had looked a bit like Rod Serling. Well,
here was my chance to ask. I thought about what they had said,
especially the last part, "...everything is going to be all right."


Finally I spoke up, "No, no questions at all. Thank you." I went
to shake their (Gods?) hand. I got caught up in a big bear hug.
"That's great," they said. "I'll be seeing you..."


Yes, I thought, probably so. It was a nice feeling.