P.s

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Compassion

“Do you want to talk?� he asked when he sat next to me. I think he already knew the answer to the question and wasn’t surprised when I chose to say nothing at all. For hours we sat together staring at the ocean as our thoughts shifted with the breeze. Every once in a while he would look over at me and smile in a way that let me know everything would be all right. Every once in a while I would look over at him and see nothing but sincerity.

If you asked me now why I was sad and alone that day, I couldn’t tell you. All I can remember is my father’s hand on my shoulder, his gentle smile, and the calm reassurance that turned away my fears. No matter what happened I knew he would be there for me just as he was then. Two hours of his time gave me wisdom beyond my years and the memory of his compassion in everything he did for me is one of the few that will never ever fade.

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Why Women Cry...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A little boy asked his mother, "Why are you crying?"

"Because I'm a woman," she told him.

"I don't understand," he said.

His Mom just hugged him and said,

"And you never will."

Later the little boy asked his father, "Why does

mother seem to cry for no reason?"

"All women cry for no reason," was all his

dad could say.

The little boy grew up and became a man, still

wondering why women cry.

Finally he put prayed to God who would surely know the answer.

When God responded he asked, "God, why do women cry so easily?"

God said: "When I made the woman she had to be to be made special. I made

her shoulders

strong enough to carry the weight of the world, yet

gentle enough to give comfort. I gave her an inner strength to endure

childbirth and the rejection that many times comes from her children. I

gave her

a hardness that allows

her to keep going when everyone else gives up, and

take care of her family

through sickness and fatigue without complaining.

gave her the sensitivity

to love her children under any and all

circumstances, even when her child

has hurt her very badly. I gave her strength to

carry her husband through

his faults and fashioned her from his rib to protect

his heart.

I gave her wisdom to know that a good husband never hurts his

wife, but sometimes tests

her strengths and her resolve to stand beside him unfalteringly.

And lastly, I gave her a tear to shed. This is hers and only hers

exclusively to use whenever she needs it.

She needs no reason, no explanation, its hers."

"You see my son," said God, "the beauty of a woman

is not in the clothes she

wears, the figure that she carries, or the way she

combs her hair.The

beauty of a woman must be seen in her eyes, because

that is the doorway to

her heart - the place where love resides."

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Twelve Signs of a
Spiritual Awakening
(Source Unknown)


1. An increased tendency to let things happen rather than make them happen.

2. Frequent attacks of smiling.

3. Feelings of being connected with others and nature.

4. Frequent overwhelming episodes of appreciation.

5. A tendency to think and act spontaneously rather than from fears based on past experience.

6. An unmistakable ability to enjoy each moment.

7. A loss of ability to worry.

8. A loss of interest in conflict.

9. A loss of interest in interpreting the actions of others.

10. A loss of interest in judging others.

11. A loss of interest in judging self.

12. Gaining the ability to love without expecting anything in return.

[toforever]

If I have had this spirtual awakening like those you do describe a symptoms why do I feel so trapped? Silly question I realize suddenly, I still have a body I cant control. Thanks though.

[CAPTAINZING2000]

How long have you been clean and sober??

[CAPTAINZING2000]

After serious & cautious consideration.....
your contract of friendship has been renewed
for the New Year 2006!

It was a very hard decision to make. So try not to screw it up!!!

A Wish for You in 2006

May peace break into your house and may thieves come to steal your debts.
May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills.
May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips!
May your clothes smell of success like smoking tires
and may happiness slap you across the face
and may your tears be that of joy.
May all your problems forget your address!
In simple words ............

May 2006 be the best year of your life

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Angel Named Cheyene

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me.
"Can't you do anything right?"

Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly
man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him.

A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for
another battle.

"I saw the car, Dad.....Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My
voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.

Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad
in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts.

Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain.

The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.

What could I do about him?

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of
nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions and had placed often.

The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

The years marched on relentlessly.

The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but
later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it.

He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing
age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack.

An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.

At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky, he
survived.

But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He
obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of
help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults.

The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was
left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small
farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him
adjust.

Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation.

It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I
became frustrated and moody.

Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick......We began to bicker
and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent.

Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each
of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my
problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain.

Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I
just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I
listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a
nursing home.

All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet
their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given
responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a
questionnaire a uniformed officer led me to the kennels.

The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of
pens. Each contained five to seven dogs.

Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs-all jumped
up, trying to reach me.

I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various
reasons-too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a
dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to
the front of the run and sat down.

It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a
caricature of the breed.

Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones
jutted out in lopsided triangles.

But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention.....Calm and
clear, they beheld me unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog.

"Can you tell me about him?"

The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.

"He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate.
We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him.
That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up
tomorrow." He gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're
going to kill him?"

"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for
every unclaimed dog." I looked at the pointer again.

The calm brown eyes awaited my decision
"I'll take him," I said.

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me.

When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize
out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.

"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly. Dad looked,
then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have
gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag
of bones. Keep it ! I don't want it."

Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad.....he's staying!" Dad ignored me.

"Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.

We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer
pulled free from my grasp.

He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly,
carefully, he raised his paw.

Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion
replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently.

Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal......It was the beginning
of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne.

Together he and Cheyenne explored the
community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent
reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout.

They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a
pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet. Dad and Cheyenne were
inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and
he and Cheyenne made many friends.

Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose
burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our
bedroom at night.

I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in
his bed, his face serene.....But his spirit had left quietly sometime
during the night.

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne
lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he
had slept on.

As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.

The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks
like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews
reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church.

The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog
who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2.
"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers." "I've often thanked God for
sending that angel," the pastor said.

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not
seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article,
Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter, his calm
acceptance and complete devotion to my father, and the proximity of
their deaths.

And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

[CAPTAINZING2000]

I REMEMBER





NOT SO LONG AGO, BEFORE MY SON BECAME A MAN

I'D TAKE HIM TO THE PARK, WE'D WALK HAND AND HAND



I CAN'T REALLY REMEMBER WHERE, THE TIME HAS CAME AND WENT

I JUST RECALL, HOW I THOUGHT MY SON WAS HEAVEN SENT



TIME STANDS STILL FOR NO ONE

AS I LOOK AT THE MAN WHO'S MY SON



THE SON THAT'S SAILED AWAY UPON THE SEA

NEVER AGAIN WILL THAT BOY RETURN TO ME



SO I TELL YOU THIS IF YOUR SON IS SMALL

TAKE THE TIME TO WATCH AS HE GROWS TALL



I CAN'T GET BACK THE MOMENTS THAT ARE LIKE DREAMS

LITTLE BOYS GROW UP FAR TOO FAST IT SEEMS

CHRIS

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Accept that some days you're the pigeon, and some days you're the statue.
Always keep your words soft and sweet, just in case you have to eat them.
Always read stuff that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.
Drive carefully. It's not only cars that can be recalled by their maker.
Eat a live toad in the morning and nothing worse will happen to you for the rest of the day.
If you can't be kind, at least have the decency to be vague.
If you lend someone $20, and never see that person again, it was probably worth it.
It may be that your sole purpose in life is simply to serve as a warning to others.
Never buy a car you can't push.
Never put both feet in your mouth at the same time, because then you don't have a leg to stand on.
Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.
The early worm gets eaten by the bird, so sleep late.
When everything's coming your way, you're in the wrong lane.
Birthdays are good for you; the more you have, the longer you live.
You may be only one person in the world, but you may also be the world to one person.
Some mistakes are too much fun to only make once.
Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened.
We could learn a lot from crayons: some are sharp, some are pretty, some are dull, some have weird names, and all are different colours but they all have to learn to live in the same box.
A truly happy person is one who can enjoy the scenery on a detour.
Happiness comes through doors you didn't even know you left open.
Have an awesome day, and know that someone has thought about you today....

[CAPTAINZING2000]

He Was Just A Mongrel



He was just a mongrel, a cast-off, the offspring of a tramp, but he was a dog that could do--almost--anything. He never went to obedience school. He wasn't discovered by Hollywood. He didn't receive FAME in Riley's Believe It Or Not. No. The only fame Scruffy received was from his family--us, and from all the children and grownups who saw his performance.

Scruffy was born on Friday, the thirteenth of September, the last in the litter, the runt--the thirteenth. He was unwanted by his mother, and his siblings did their best to crowd him out. Scrawny and pathetic in appearance, he looked as if he wouldn't survive until his eyes were open. In fact, the owners of the mother dog had thought of drowning him. But when I saw him, I knew I wanted him, I knew he was the pup I had been looking for. To me, the nondescript, unwanted runt, was the pick of the litter. And choosing a name was easy: he was SCRUFFY. No other name would have suited him.

A mongrel Scruffy may have been, a thirteenth, a runt, but he was no moron. In the trick department he could roll over, speak, jump through a hoop, say his prayers, count on command, or do any number of other tricks, including retrieving any article I would suggest, even if I had lined up thirteen items. He never made a mistake.

Scruffy, the little brown terrier-type pup, wore his personality in his tail. His was straggly, and far too long for the rest of him. At first I had wondered about having it docked. But as the time went on I was glad I had decided to let him keep it. His tail was like a compass, or possibly a road map. He had a different tail-wag for every part of his life, from waving it uncertainly when he met a stranger, to almost wagging his whole hind end off whenever he greeted a friend, or a member of the family. And he had a special kind of tail-wag for animals of nature, especially for squirrels--for which he had some strange obsession.

Scruffy became "famous" the day one of the children asked if he could take the dog to school for "show and tell".

"Show and tell?" I asked. "Dogs can't go into school.�

But that is exactly what happened, David and I took Scruffy to school. David was in a "special" class, and the teacher thought that a dog might give some stimulation to some of the problem children in the class. (David was not one of them.) The teacher was right about giving stimulation. David proudly introduced his dog, and then sat down on the floor with the twenty other children. I put Scruffy through his paces. First, I told him to find David. David made no gestures. He sat with quiet expectation, knowing that his dog would not disappoint him. He didn't. Scruffy, as if pretending he was searching for the right little boy went around sniffing all the children, much to the delight of the class. When he came to David, he skipped over him, making sure that he sniffed all the other children first. Then with a burst of exuberance, he pounced on David. This sent the whole class into gales of laughter.

The rest of the "tricks" were like icing on the cake. The children sat enthralled as Scruffy picked out the named object from the thirteen toys lined up on the floor. (It had to be thirteen items; the children insisted on that, after I told them the story of his early beginnings.

That half hour spent in David’s classroom, decided Scruffy’s future for him. From that day on he was invited, not only to go back to David’s classroom, but to go, as well, to all our other children's classrooms for his performances.

And his fame spread further. He was invited to care homes. It was a delight to see the faces of sad elderly men and women break out into smiles when they saw Scruffy marching down the hall. He needed no leash. He had learned his manners well, and he never forgot them. He seemed to sense which of the elderly folks were timid of him, and which ones delighted in his putting his paws on their knees.

Scruffy was a born entertainer. He thrived on performing. That mongrel brought sparkle and excitement into the lives of children and elderly alike. If a dog could be an angel, Scruffy would have had wings.




~ Helen Dowd ~

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Jeremy was born with a twisted body, a slow mind and a chronic, terminal illness that had been slowly killing him all his young life. Still his parents had tried to give him as normal a life as possible and had sent him to St. Theresa's Elementary School.

At the age of 12, Jeremy was only in second grade, seemingly unable to learn. His teacher, Doris Miller, often became exasperated with him. He would squirm in his seat, drool and make grunting noises. At other times, he spoke clearly and distinctly, as if a spot of light had penetrated the darkness of his brain. Most of the time, however, Jeremy irritated his teacher.

One day, she called his parents and asked them to come to St. Theresa's for a consultation. As the Forresters sat quietly in the empty classroom, Doris said to them, "Jeremy really belongs in a special school. It isn't fair to him to be with younger children who don't have learning problems. Why, there is a five-year gap between his age and that of the other students!"

Mrs. Forrester cried softly into a tissue while her husband spoke. "Miss Miller," he said, "there is no school of that kind nearby. It would be a terrible shock for Jeremy if we had to take him out of this school. We know he really likes it here."

Doris sat for a long time after they left, staring at the snow outside the window. Its coldness seemed to seep into her soul. She wanted to sympathize with the Forresters. After all, their only child had a terminal illness. But it wasn't fair to keep him in her class. She had 18 other youngsters to teach and Jeremy was a distraction. Furthermore, he would never learn to read or write. Why waste any more time trying?

As she pondered the situation, guilt washed over her. "Oh God," she said aloud, "here I am complaining when my problems are nothing compared with that poor family! Please help me to be more patient with Jeremy."

From that day on, she tried to ignore Jeremy's noises and his blank stares. Then one day he limped to her desk, dragging his bad leg behind him. "I love you, Miss Miller," he exclaimed loudly enough for the whole class to hear. The other children snickered, and Doris's face turned red. She stammered, "Wh-Why, that's very nice, Jeremy. Now please take your seat."

Spring came, and the chidden talked excitedly about the coming of Easter. Doris told them of the story of Jesus, and then to emphasize the idea of new life springing forth, she gave each of the children a large plastic egg. "Now," she said to them, "I want you to take this home and bring it back tomorrow with something inside that shows new life. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Miss Miller!" the children responded enthusiastically - all except for Jeremy. He just listened intently, his eyes never left her face. He did not even make his usual noises. Had he understood what she had said about Jesus' death and resurrection? Did he understand the assignment? Perhaps she should call his parents and explain the project to them.

That evening, Doris's kitchen sink stopped up. She called the landlord and waited an hour for him to come by and unclog it. After that, she still had to shop for groceries, iron a blouse and prepare a vocabulary test for the next day. She completely forgot about phoning Jeremy's parents.

The next morning, 19 children came to school, laughing and talking as they placed their eggs in the large wicker basket on Miss Miller's desk. After they completed their Math lesson, it was time to open the eggs. In the first egg, Doris found a flower. "Oh yes, a flower is certainly a sign of new life," she said. "When plants peek through the ground we know that spring is here." A small girl in the first row waved her arms. "That's my egg, Miss Miller," she called out.

The next egg contained a plastic butterfly, which looked very real. Doris held it up, "We all know that a caterpillar changes and grows into a beautiful butterfly. Yes that is new life, too." Little Judy smiled proudly and said, "Miss Miller, that one is mine."

Next, Doris found a rock with moss on it. She explained that the moss, too, showed life. Billy spoke up from the back of the classroom. "My Daddy helped me!" he beamed.

Then Doris opened the fourth egg. She gasped. The egg was empty! Surely it must be Jeremy's she thought, and of course, he did not understand her instructions. If only she had not forgotten to phone his parents. Because she did not want to embarrass him, she quietly set the egg aside and reached for another. Suddenly Jeremy spoke up.

"Miss Miller, aren't you going to talk about my egg?" Flustered, Doris replied, "but Jeremy - your egg is empty!" He looked into her eyes and said softly, "Yes, but Jesus' tomb was empty too!"

Time stopped. When she could speak again, Doris asked him, "Do you know why the tomb was empty?" "Oh yes!" Jeremy exclaimed. "Jesus was killed and put in there. Then His Father raised Him up!"

The recess bell rang. While the children excitedly ran out to the school yard, Doris cried. The cold inside her melted completely away.

Three months later Jeremy died. Those who paid their respects at the mortuary were surprised to see 19 eggs on top of his casket, all of them empty.

[cwohio]

[CAPTAINZING2000]

A Lesson for a Lifetime



When I arrived at 6 a.m. in the large hospital kitchen, Rose was already checking name tags on the trays against the patient roster. Stainless steel shelves held rows of breakfast trays which we would soon be serving.

"Hi, I'm Janet." I tried to sound cheerful, although I already knew Rose's reputation for being impossible to work with. "I'm scheduled to work with you this week."

Rose, a middle-aged woman with graying hair, stopped what she was doing and peered over her reading glasses. I could tell from her expression she wasn't pleased to see a student worker.

"What do you want me to do? Start the coffee?"

Rose sullenly nodded and went back to checking name tags.

I filled the 40-cup pot with cold water and began making the coffee when Rose gruffly snapped, "That's not the way to make coffee." She stepped in and took over.

"I was just doing it the way our supervisor showed us to do it," I said in astonishment.

"The patients like the coffee better the way I do it," she replied curtly.

Nothing I did pleased her. All morning her eagle eyes missed nothing and her sharp words stung. She literally trailed me around the kitchen.

Later, after breakfast had been served and the dishes had been washed, I set up my share of trays for the next meal. Then I busied myself cleaning the sink. Certainly Rose couldn't criticize the way I did that.

When I turned around, there stood Rose, rearranging all of the trays I had just set up!

Totally exhausted, I trudged the six blocks home from the University of Minnesota Hospital late that June afternoon. As a third year university student working my way through school, I had never before encountered anyone like Rose.

Fighting back tears, I wrestled with my dilemma alone in my room. "Lord, what do you want me to do? I can't take much more of Rose."

I turned the possibilities over in my mind. Should I see if my supervisor would switch me to work with someone else? Scheduling was fairly flexible. On the other hand, I didn't want to be a quitter. I knew my older co-workers were watching to see if my actions matched my words.

The answer to my prayer caught me completely by surprise -- I needed to love Rose.

Love her? No way! Tolerate, yes, but loving her was impossible.

"Lord, I can't love Rose. You'll have to do it through me."

Working with Rose the next morning, I ignored the barbs thrown in my direction and did things Rose's way as much as possible to avoid friction. As I worked, I silently began to surround Rose with a warm blanket of prayers. "Lord, help me love Rose. Lord, bless Rose."

Over the next few days an amazing thing began to happen. As I prayed for this irritating woman, my focus shifted from what she was doing to me, and I started seeing Rose as the hurting person she was. The icy tension began to melt away.

Throughout the rest of the summer, we had numerous opportunities to work together. Each time she seemed genuinely happy to see me. As I worked with this lonely woman, I listened to her--something no one else had done.

I learned that she was burdened by elderly parents who needed her care, her own health problems, and an alcoholic husband she was thinking of leaving.

The days slipped by quickly as I finished the last several weeks of my summer job. Leaves were starting to turn yellow and red, and there was a cool, crispness in the air. I soon would be returning as a full-time university student.

One day, while I was working alone in one of the hospital kitchens, Rose entered the room. Instead of her blue uniform, she was wearing street clothes.

I looked at her in surprise. "Aren't you working today?"

"I got me another job and won't be working here no more," she said as she walked over and gave me a quick hug. "I just came to say good-bye." Then she turned abruptly and walked out the door.

Although I never saw Rose again, I still remember her vividly. That summer I learned a lesson I've never forgotten. The world is full of people like Rose--irritating, demanding, unlovable - yet hurting inside. I've found that love is the best way to turn an enemy into a friend.

[cwohio]

[CAPTAINZING2000]

There was a couple who took a trip to England to shop in a beautiful antique store to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. They both liked antiques and pottery, and especially teacups. Spotting an exceptional cup, they asked "May we see that? We've never seen a cup quite so beautiful."

As the lady handed it to them, suddenly the teacup spoke, "You don't understand. I have not always been a teacup. There was a time when I was just a lump of red clay. My master took me and rolled me pounded and patted me over and over and I yelled out, 'Don't do that. I don't like it! Let me alone.' But he only smiled, and gently said; 'Not yet!'" "Then. WHAM! I was placed on a spinning wheel and suddenly I was spun around and around and around. 'Stop it! I'm getting so dizzy! I'm going to be sick,' I screamed. But the master only nodded and said, quietly; 'Not yet.'

"He spun me and poked and prodded and bent me out of shape to suit himself and then… Then he put me in the oven. I never felt such heat. I yelled and knocked and pounded at the door. Help! Get me out of here! I could see him through the opening and I could read his lips as he shook his head from side to side, 'Not yet'."

"When I thought I couldn't bear it another minute, the door opened. He carefully took me out and put me on the shelf, and I began to cool. Oh, that felt so good! Ah, this is much better, I thought. But, after I cooled he picked me up and he brushed and painted me all over. The fumes were horrible. I thought I would gag. 'Oh, please; Stop it, Stop it!' I cried. He only shook his head and said. 'Not yet!'."

"Then suddenly he put me back in to the oven. Only it was not like the first one. This was twice as hot and I just knew I would suffocate. I begged. I pleaded. I screamed. I cried. I was convinced I would never make it. I was ready to give up. Just then the door opened and he took me out and again placed me on the shelf, where I cooled and waited ------- and waited, wondering "What's he going to do to me next? An hour later he handed me a mirror and said 'Look at yourself.'" "And I did. I said, 'That's not me; that couldn't be me. It's beautiful. I'm beautiful!'

Quietly he spoke: 'I want you to remember, then,' he said, 'I know it hurt to be rolled and pounded and patted, but had I just left you alone, you'd have dried up. I know it made you dizzy to spin around on the wheel, but if I had stopped, you would have crumbled. I know it hurt and it was hot and disagreeable in the oven, but if I hadn't put you there, you would have cracked. I know the fumes were bad when I brushed and painted you all over, but if I hadn't done that, you never would have hardened. You would not have had any color in your life. If I hadn't put you back in that second oven, you wouldn't have survived for long because the hardness would not have held. Now you are a finished product. Now you are what I had in mind when I first began with you."

The moral of this story is this: God knows what He's doing for each of us. He is the potter, and we are His clay. He will mold us and make us, and expose us to just enough pressures of just the right kinds that we may be made into a flawless piece of work to fulfill His good, pleasing and perfect will.

So when life seems hard, and you are being pounded and patted and pushed almost beyond endurance; when your world seems to be spinning out of control; when you feel like you are in a fiery furnace of trials; when life seems to "stink", try this....

Brew a cup of your favorite tea in your prettiest teacup, sit down and think on this story and then, have a little talk with the Potter.

[cwohio]

good one!

[CAPTAINZING2000]

A few weeks after my first wife, Georgia, was called to heaven, I was cooking dinner for my son and myself. For a vegetable, I decided on frozen peas. As I was cutting open the bag, it slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. The peas, like marbles, rolled everywhere. I tried to use a broom, but with each swipe the peas rolled across the kitchen, bounced off the wall on the other side and rolled in another direction.

My mental state at the time was fragile. Losing a spouse is an unbearable pain. I got on my hands and knees and pulled them into a pile to dispose of. I was half laughing and half crying as I collected them. I could see the humor in what happened, but it doesn’t take much for a person dealing with grief to break down.

For the next week, every time I was in the kitchen, I would find a pea that had escaped my first cleanup. In a corner, behind a table leg, in the frays at the end of a mat, or hidden under a heater, they kept turning up. Eight months later I pulled out the refrigerator to clean, and found a dozen or so petrified peas hidden underneath.

At the time I found those few remaining peas, I was in a new relationship with a wonderful woman I met in a widow/widower support group. After we married, I was reminded of those peas under the refrigerator. I realized my life had been like that bag of frozen peas. It had shattered. My wife was gone. I was in a new city with a busy job and a son having trouble adjusting to his new surroundings and the loss of his mother. I was a wreck. I was a bag of spilled, frozen peas. My life had come apart and scattered.

When life gets you down; when everything you know comes apart; when you think you can never get through the tough times, remember, it is just a bag of scattered, frozen peas. The peas can be collected and life will move on. You will find all the peas. First the easy peas come together in a pile. You pick them up and start to move on. Later you will find the bigger and harder to find peas. When you pull all the peas together, life will be whole again.

The life you know can be scattered at any time. You will move on, but how fast you collect your peas depends on you. Will you keep scattering them around with a broom, or will you pick them up one-by-one and put your life back together?

How will you collect your peas?



~ Michael T. Smith ~

[cwohio]

but i HATTTTEEEE peas! LOL

another good story - thanks!

[CAPTAINZING2000]

~ How to Get Along With People ~



Keep skid chains on your tongue; always say less than you think. Cultivate a low, persuasive voice. How you say it counts more than what you say.

Make promises sparingly, and keep them faithfully, no matter what it costs.

Never let an opportunity pass to say a kind and encouraging word to or about somebody. Praise good work, regardless of who did it. If criticism is needed, criticize helpfully, never spitefully.

Be interested in others, their pursuits, their work, their homes and families. Make merry with those who rejoice; with those who weep, mourn. Let everyone you meet, however humble, feel that you regard him as a person of importance.

Be cheerful. Don't burden or depress those around you by dwelling on your minor aches and pains and small disappointments. Remember, everyone is carrying some kind of a load.

Keep an open mind. Discuss but don't argue. It is a mark of a superior mind to be able to disagree without being disagreeable.

Let your virtues speak for themselves. Refuse to talk of another's vices. Discourage gossip. It is a waste of valuable time and can be extremely destructive.

Be careful of another's feelings. Wit and humor at the other person's expense are rarely worth it and may hurt when least expected.

Pay no attention to ill-natured remarks about you. Remember, the person who carried the message may not be the most accurate reporter in the world. Simply live so that nobody will believe them. Disordered nerves and bad digestion are a common cause of backbiting.

Don't be too anxious about the credit due you. Do your best, and be patient. Forget about yourself, and let others "remember." Success is much sweeter that way.



Ann Landers

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Multitudes of people are continually keeping away from them higher and better things because they are forever clinging on to the old. If they would use and pass on the old, room would be made for new things to come. Hoarding always brings loss in one form or another. Using, wisely using, brings an ever renewing gain.
If the tree should as ignorantly and as greedily hold on to this year's leaves when they have served their purpose, where would be the full and beautiful new life that will be put forth in the spring? Gradual decay and finally death would be the result. If the tree is already dead, then it may perhaps be well enough for it to cling on to the old, for no new leaves will come. But as long as the life in the tree is active, it is necessary that it rid itself of the old ones, that room may be made for the new.

Opulence is the law of the universe, an abundant supply for every need if nothing is put in the way of its coming. The natural and the normal life for us is this - to have such a fullness of life and power by living so continually in the realization of our oneness with the Infinite Life and Power that we find ourselves in the constant possession of an abundant supply of all things needed.

Then not by hoarding, but by wisely using and ridding ourselves of things as they come, an ever renewing supply will be ours, a supply far better adapted to present needs than the old could possibly be. In this way we not only come into possession of the richest treasures of the Infinite Good ourselves, but we also become open channels through which they can flow to others.


Ralph Waldo Trine
In Tune With the Infinite
Harper Collins, Northampton, England

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Smiles

"Peace begins with a smile."
----------

"Sometimes it is harder for us to smile at those who live with us, the immediate members of our families, than it is to smile at those who are not so close to us. Let us never forget: love begins at home."
----------

"I will never understand all the good that a simple smile can accomplish."
----------

"To smile at someone who is sad; to visit, even for a little while, someone who is lonely; to give someone shelter from the rain with our umbrella; to read something for someone who is blind; these and others can be small things, very small things, but they are appropriate to give our love of God concrete expression to the poor."

*MOTHER TERESA

[CAPTAINZING2000]

I Didn't Appreciate
- By Walker Moore

As I get older, I realize there are things in
my life I didn't appreciate until it was too late.

I didn't appreciate the naps they used to make
me take in kindergarten.

I long for the day when someone says, "You
can't work anymore until you take a nap." I
guarantee you, I won't argue.
------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate one-cent candy or milk
that was delivered to your front door. In the
"do-it-yourself" world we'll never see either of
those again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate those face-squishing hugs
my mother used to give me.

Now that she's gone home to be with the Lord,
I long for just one more.

This time I would squish her right back.

------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate the days I danced barefoot
in the rain with my mouth open wide trying to
get a drink of raindrops.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate the sacrifice my parents
made for my brothers and me to keep us clothed,
fed and happy.

--------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate mom letting us mess up the
living room on a rainy day.

I thought building a tent with a secret tunnel
is what everyone did on those days.

------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate the marvels of planting a seed
and watching it sprout into a full-grown plant.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate the struggles we had to go
through as a family.

Because of yesterday's struggles, we have
strength for today.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate the times my sons came to
me and asked those annoying, unanswerable
questions.
"What makes a duck quack?"
"Why is the sky blue?"

I had no idea they thought I was smart enough
to answer all their questions.

------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate the times our family had
together.

------------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate those "primary" Sunday
School teachers who went through so much
trouble to collect toilet paper rolls so I could
understand what a scroll was.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate those clear nights when the
stars danced with glee showing off their awesome
Creator.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate our son's "refrigerator
artwork" that made our house a home.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't know to appreciate the muddy
footprints my wife and I so often found making a
path across our carpet as a representation of life.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate the times my children fell
asleep in daddy's arms.

I didn't realize it was there they felt
protected from all the elements of the world.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate my parents taking me to
church, the place I found Jesus!

----------------------------------------------------------------
I didn't appreciate the ease at which I can access
a Bible, while I know people who hunger for a
single page.

------------------------------------------------------------------
And, even today, I can't fully appreciate what
a great salvation I have.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
God, I have just one prayer for today. Open my
eyes that I may be able to see and appreciate the
things that you do each day.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

"In a completely rational society, the best of us would aspire to be
teachers and the rest of us would have to settle for something less, because

passing civilization along from one generation to the next ought to be the
highest honor and highest responsibility anyone could have" ---Lee Iacocca

[CAPTAINZING2000]

One Friday at the end of a particularly hard and stressful week, a coworker came
to me and wanted to talk.

She said she just felt "blah" for the past several weeks.

"It is very difficult to care about anything anymore," she related. Little
did she know that I was somewhere beyond that same point.

Three months prior, our family had lost a close friend named Zella. She was related
to both sides of my family in various, too complicated to tell ways, and was like
a sparkling extra grandmother to my children. Zella had a wonderful, hearty laugh
combined with a glimmer in her eyes.

But I found myself beside her bed in an intensive care unit, holding her hand while
her children took a break. A surgery the day before had revealed a huge mass involving
most of her abdominal organs. There was nothing to be done.

As she and her family hovered in that no-mans-land between hope and reality, I wanted
to impart to her that God cared for her. I asked if she would like a prayer. She
nodded yes. I had intended to recite the 23rd Psalm, but realized I could not --
I was totally blank! I was able to stumble through one prayer, The Lords Prayer.

As I sat beside her, a faint sparkle returned to her eyes along with a weak smile.
I knew that in normal times Zella and I would be laughing, in a kind way, about
my awkwardness at that moment, and how I had botched the prayer. But these were
not normal times, and she slipped into unconsciousness the next day and died several
days later.

The 23rd Psalm is familiar to those of us from the Judeo-Christian tradition. It
begins with "The Lord is my shepherd..." and is perhaps the most recited
Biblical verse. I would wager everyone from that background could think of someone
they love or loved very much to whom this verse was important. It is common at funerals,
and in times of danger and stress.

I made a renewed pledge to memorize it and tried for weeks. I printed it out in
a large font and tried to memorize it while driving each day to work. But it just
could not stick in my memory.

I became increasingly annoyed and with disgust and set the prayer aside. Many extra
hours at work, the everyday stress of raising children, helping aged relatives and
an overly busy life lead to a slow, darkening spiral that I hardly noticed. Over
the weeks I became unfocused, and increasingly felt ineffectual in many aspects
of my life.

So there I was, with my coworker -- a woman who needed reassurance, who needed support,
who needed motivation. And I was not sure I had any of those things to give. Without
great enthusiasm I started one of my standard pep talks.

"You know, JoAnn, it isn't the job that you do that is important, it is how
you do your job..." It sounded incredibly trite as I said it.

I encouraged her to care, because with caring comes hope. And where there is hope,
there is always a future -- a better day. I threw in an impromptu example of how
easy it was not to care.

I said, "If you saw a piece of trash in the hallway, it would be easy not to
pick it up, after all, 'it is not my job.' But how much better it is to care. How
much more positive it would be to pick up the trash. By thinking positively, you
helped a coworker in a small way, and you helped yourself."

I was not sure it was a convincing speech for JoAnn and I was certain it didn't
convince me. I felt even more tired, more spent. It was like what little bit of
hope, if any, which had been given to JoAnn was drained from me, leaving me with
none.

I gathered my coat, and walked head bowed and disheartened down the hall. As I turned
down a hallway, I passed a small rectangular piece of paper on the floor.

I just kept walking.

I walked about six paces beyond the paper, and was musing about the irony of the
example I had just given my coworker, but I didn't really want to stop, let alone
turn, retrace my steps, and pick up the trash. But I did stop, and stood still for
a moment -- debating.

Sighing, I turned back to the paper.

It was plain white and about 1-1/2 inches wide and 4 inches long. As I picked it
up, I realized it was a bookmark and when I turned it over, in small print this
is what was on the other side:

The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul:
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil for thou art with me:
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

That was a pivotal point for me.

It broke my mood, and for some odd reason, or perhaps some not so odd reason, I
was able to memorize the 23rd Psalm easily after that day.

Every day we are presented with opportunities, some large, some small, to move forward
in life's journey. I can tell you many times when opportunity knocks at our door,
we don't open it to see what is there. Many times when a gift is placed at our feet,
we don't stop and stoop to pick it up.

But I've learned we should.

[CAPTAINZING2000]

MY WISH FOR YOU


My wish for you, that you have enough rainy days to make you enjoy the sunshine even more

My wish for you, that your kids will never seem like a chore


My wish for you, that you really listen to your parents when they call

my wish for you, you'll remember when they helped you when, you would fall


My wish for you, that you'll be a friend to someone in need.

My wish for you, that you can say, I'm glad it's not me


My wish for you, that you'll always be grateful

My wish for you, that you'll never be hateful


My wish for you, you'll speak up for the injustice that surrounds you

My wish for you, that you won't sit back and you'll know what to do.


My wish for you, that when your time on earth is done.

My wish for you, that your time all totaled was a happy one
__________________
So Many Beautiful Women and Sunsets, So Little Time

[CAPTAINZING2000]

Ben Stein's Last Column

For many years Ben Stein has written a biweekly column called "Monday
Night At Morton's." (Morton's is a famous chain of Steakhouses known to
be frequented by movie stars and famous people from around the globe.)
Now, Ben is terminating the column to move on to other things in his
life. Reading his final column is worth a few minutes of your time.

Ben Stein's Last Column...
============================================
How Can Someone Who Lives in Insane Luxury Be a Star in Today's World?

As I begin to write this, I "slug" it, as we writers say, which means I
put a heading on top of the document to identify it. This heading is
"e online FINAL," and it gives me a shiver to write it. I have been doing
this column for so long that I cannot even recall when I started. I
loved writing this column so much for so long I came to believe it would
never end.

It worked well for a long time, but gradually, my changing as a person
and the world's change have overtaken it. On a small scale, Morton's,
while better than ever, no longer attracts as many stars as it used to.
It still brings in the rich people in droves and definitely some stars.
I saw Samuel L. Jackson there a few days ago, and we had a nice visit,
and right before that, I saw and had a splendid talk with Warren Beatty
in an elevator, in which we agreed that Splendor in the Grass was a
super movie. But Morton's is not the star galaxy it once was, though it
probably will be again.

Beyond that, a bigger change has happened. I no longer think Hollywood
stars are terribly important. They are uniformly pleasant, friendly
people, and they treat me better than I deserve to be treated. But a man
or woman who makes a huge wage for memorizing lines and reciting them in
front of a camera is no longer my idea of a shining star we should all
look up to.

How can a man or woman who makes an eight-figure wage and lives in
insane luxury really be a star in today's world, if by a "star" we mean
someone bright and powerful and attractive as a role model? Real stars
are not riding around in the backs of limousines or in Porsches or
getting trained in yoga or Pilates and eating only raw fruit while they
have Vietnamese girls do their nails.

They can be interesting, nice people, but they are not heroes to me any
longer. A real star is the soldier of the 4th Infantry Division who
poked his head into a hole on a farm near Tikrit, Iraq. He could have
been met by a bomb or a hail of AK-47 bullets. Instead, he faced an
abject Saddam Hussein and the gratitude of all of the decent people of
the world.

A real star is the U.S. soldier who was sent to disarm a bomb next to a
road north of Baghdad. He approached it, and the bomb went off and
killed him.

A real star, the kind who haunts my memory night and day, is the U.S.
soldier in Baghdad who saw a little girl playing with a piece of
unexploded ordnance on a street near where he was guarding a station. He
pushed her aside and threw himself on it just as it exploded. He left a
family desolate in California and a little girl alive in Baghdad.

The stars who deserve media attention are not the ones who have lavish
weddings on TV but the ones who patrol the streets of Mosul even after
two of their buddies were murdered and their bodies battered and
stripped for the sin of trying to protect Iraqis from terrorists.

We put couples with incomes of $100 million a year on the covers of our
magazines. The noncoms and officers who barely scrape by on military pay
but stand on guard in Afghanistan and Iraq and on ships and in
submarines and near the Arctic Circle are anonymous as they live and
die.

I am no longer comfortable being a part of the system that has such poor
values, and I do not want to perpetuate those values by pretending that
who is eating at Morton's is a big subject.

There are plenty of other stars in the American firmament...the
policemen and women who go off on patrol in South Central and have no
idea if they will return alive; the orderlies and paramedics who bring
in people who have been in terrible accidents and prepare them for
surgery; the teachers and nurses who throw their whole spirits into
caring for autistic children; the kind men and women who work in
hospices and in cancer wards.

Think of each and every fireman who was running up the stairs at the
World Trade Center as the towers began to collapse. Now you have my idea
of a real hero.

I came to realize that life lived to help others is the only one that
matters. This is my highest and best use as a human. I can put it
another way. Years ago, I realized I could never be as great an actor as
Olivier or as good a comic as Steve Martin...or Martin Mull or Fred
Willard--or as good an economist as Samuelson or Friedman or as good a
writer as Fitzgerald. Or even remotely close to any of them.

But I could be a devoted father to my son, husband to my wife and, above
all, a good son to the parents who had done so much for me. This came to
be my main task in life. I did it moderately well with my son, pretty
well with my wife and well indeed with my parents (with my sister's
help). I cared for and paid attention to them in their declining years.
I stayed with my father as he got sick, went into extremis and then into
a coma and then entered immortality with my sister and me reading him
the Psalms.

This was the only point at which my life touched the lives of the
soldiers in Iraq or the firefighters in New York. I came to realize that
life lived to help others is the only one that matters and that it is my
duty, in return for the lavish life God has devolved upon me, to help
others He has placed in my path. This is my highest and best use as a
human.

Faith is not believing that God can. It is knowing that God will.
By Ben Stein