 The
Cat's 
Meow
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| Issue 39, Vol. 2 | September 12, 2003 |
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Great Teachers Computers and technology made Ross Perot a wealthy man. But his greatest teacher was not a university professor or a computer expert. It was his mother - who raised him before the phrase "computer age" was ever coined. He remembers the little things she did which taught him to be the kind of man he eventually became. Like showing generosity and compassion. During the Great Depression, "hoboes" regularly knocked on their door asking for a little food. One day one of these visitors told his mother why. Out on the curb in front of their house an earlier hobo had placed a white mark, indicating to later travelers that their house was an "easy mark." Young Ross asked his mother if she wanted him to erase the white mark. She told him to leave it there. He never forgot that tiny act of compassion. Ross Perot believed he received his greatest learnings from his mother. Her lessons were the kind he could never pick up in a school. Her influence in shaping his life was beyond measure. You, too, are teaching powerful lessons simply by the way you live. Steve Goodier This reading is found in Steve Goodier's book ONE MINUTE CAN CHANGE A LIFE You can buy it now here: (877) 344-0989 or
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Giving All In his book Written in Blood, Robert Coleman tells the story of a little boy whose sister needed a blood transfusion. The doctor had explained that she had the same disease the boy had recovered from two years earlier. Her only chance for recovery was a transfusion from someone who had previously conquered the disease. Since the two children had the same rare blood type, the boy was the ideal donor. "Would you give your blood to Mary?" the doctor asked. Johnny hesitated. His lower lip started to tremble.
Soon the two children were wheeled into the hospital room--Mary, pale With the ordeal almost over, his voice slightly shaky, broke the silence. "Doctor, when do I die?" Only then did the doctor realize why Johnny had hesitated, why his lip had trembled when he'd agreed to donate his blood. He'd thought giving his blood to his sister meant giving up his life. Thomas Lindberg, Stevens Point, Wisconsin. Leadership, Vol.5, no. 1. See: 2 Co 5:21; Isa 53:4-6 |
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Inspiration
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While visiting my father-in-law at the nursing home, I noticed a very elderly woman in a wheelchair just outside his room. The nurses station was directly across the way. Suddenly, this old woman began to sing. Her voice, of course, was quite loud but not very good. She sang a show tune from the forties as she sat in her chair. I can't remember the name of it, but it was something very romantic, a love song, It was recognizable, but barely. Her voice was very trembly but sweet and almost heartbreaking. It seemed like she had once been accustomed to singing for people. The nurses were always very busy, but one of them at the station did something I will always remember: she stopped what she was doing and rested her chin on her hand to listen until the song was done. Then she said, "Oh Millie, I just LOVE it when you sing. Thank you." It was such a small
kindness, but such a great reward. The nurse went back to work, but the
woman in the wheelchair had the most beatific look on her face. ~ Beverly Hover |
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The first thing I noticed was the hyena laughter, grating on the edge of my nerves. Then I saw them. Pointing and hooting, they could barely stand up, they were so overcome with mirth. As a single Mom and a secretary at the main campus of a large university, I was sick to death of teenage boys pretending to pursue an education, and I wondered, as they pointed in my direction, if they were laughing at me. Then I saw him. Standing in the middle of a street, trembling violently, apparently unable to move. The boys thought it was simply hilarious. Suddenly, I felt a terrible rage. I recognized the professor, though I had never met him. Immediately I tore across campus, anger giving wings to my feet. I wanted to reach those boys and just annihilate them. I wanted to be the strongest man in the world and beat them to a pulp! But I raced toward the helpless professor instead, who was having one of his most violent attacks. Professor Smythe had Parkinson's Disease. When I finally reached him, cars were zooming around him, blowing their horns, and there I was, no power at all, and not a rock within reach. I didn't know him, except to exchange greetings, but he always had the most angelic smile. What was he doing in the street, alone? Usually his graduate students guarded him like faithful dogs, walking with him wherever he needed to go, and protecting him from bullies and jerks. His courage amazed me. I reached him, without a plan. I tried to talk to him, to find out what to do, but he was shaking so violently, he couldn't speak. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I threw my arms around him, and I held him close, whispering in his ear. "Shush. Sshh. Everything will be all right. I'm here. I'll help you. Sshhh." I held him, as close as I could, ignoring the hoots and hollers of the idiots in the street, and I rocked him, speaking in low tones, much as I did for my own baby daughter, when she would sob those breathy sobs that children often do. After a time, the professor's trembling calmed a little, and I was able to help him to the sidewalk. I walked with him until we came upon his student, who had been unavoidably detained. He got so upset when he heard what had happened, that he vowed to make certain that at least two students would always be there to accompany the professor. I began to time my lunch to coincide with his walk across campus. I looked for opportunities to speak to him. He was forgiving, and the kindest man I had ever known. There was no treatment for Parkinson's in 1969, but Professor Smythe was never resentful. He would often say that perhaps he could give people a reason to practice kindness. Perhaps people would reflect upon life's blessings, believing that "there but for the grace of God, go I." I said, that perhaps God was just making a bigger place in hell, for the one's who never had a thought. He laughed, but he let me know that he felt no ill will towards them. I figured it was good that I never saw those two boys again, because I fantasized their demise, in gut wrenching detail. One of the last times that I saw Professor Smythe, he told me that as he stood there trembling in the street, he had prayed that God would send him an angel, to help him. "And God sent you," he said, looking at me with his kind eyes. It gave me a chill to hear that, and it made me want to become the kind of person that Professor Smythe believed I was. After the spring term came and went, Professor Smythe never returned. He died six months later. Though I've never been able to completely overcome my temper, I think I have become a more gentle person, because of that precious man, and his quiet strength. -- Jaye Lewis ___________________________________________ Jaye is a southern writer, who lives and writes in the beautiful mountains of southwestern Virginia. Jaye is currently compiling her stories into a book, "Entertaining Angels." You can contact her here Reprinted by permission of the author |
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By Marcy Goodfleisch When they were young, life with my two sons was what would tactfully be called "challenging." For years, broken bones, stitches, notes from the school principal, torn jeans and numerous unusual pets hidden under their beds were part of our daily family life. But sometimes I would get a comforting glimpse of the fine young men Kevin and Eric would one day become, and suddenly the world would seem right. One such glimpse came when Kevin and Eric befriended a new boy in the neighborhood. My sons were about ten and twelve that year, and Danny was somewhere in between. Danny was an intense child, thin and slightly built. But he couldn't run and jump and climb like the rest of the neighborhood children. Danny spent his days in a wheelchair. Although there were dozens of children for blocks around, only Kevin and Eric took the time to meet Danny and spend time playing with him. Usually, they would go around the corner to his house. And once in a while, they would help Danny navigate the streets and sidewalks and bring him to our home. As the boys' friendship with Danny blossomed, I was gratified to see that they accepted and loved Danny without seeing him as physically limited. More than that, they realized that Danny both needed and deserved to experience, as much as possible, all the things "normal" children could enjoy. One Saturday, several months after Danny moved into the neighborhood, Kevin and Eric asked if he could spend the night with us. My husband and I said that was fine, and we reminded them that we would attend church as usual the next morning. Danny was invited to sleep over, and to accompany us to church. That night, the three boys had a great time playing games and watching television. When it was time for bed, my husband carried Danny upstairs to the boys' room, and we made certain he was comfortable for the night. Dealing with a child in a wheelchair was a new and very humbling experience for us. Suddenly, a few scraped knees and broken arms seemed to be blessings - products of having healthy, active children. They were reasons to give thanks, rather than the purple hearts of parenthood we'd thought them to be. The next day, with help from all of us, Danny was soon dressed and ready for church. Kevin and Eric helped Danny into the backseat of the station wagon, and we loaded the wheelchair into the cargo area. Once at the church, we unloaded everybody, and the boys happily wheeled Danny off to meet their friends. At the time, our church had a rather pleasant tradition of letting the children in the congregation take turns each week being unofficial acolytes. Invariably, the children were excited when they were chosen to walk down the center aisle of the church carrying a long brass taper used to light the candles. We adults always enjoyed seeing how seriously the youngsters took their job, how slowly and tentatively they climbed the stairs to the altar and solemnly touched each candle, ever-so-lightly, until it caught flame. After church school, we were preparing to enter the sanctuary when the minister approached us. Kevin and Eric had asked him if Danny could light the candles this week. Concerned about the logistics of Danny navigating the stairs, the minister had tried to persuade them otherwise and had pointed out the obstacles. But my sons had insisted that Danny perform the honor, he said, and had assured him that they had figured out a plan. Wisely, the minister had given consent and left the situation in the boys' hands. As the opening music began, I turned in my seat to see how my two unpredictable sons would make this miracle happen. Kevin and Eric stood behind the wheelchair, beaming from ear to ear. In front of them sat Danny, proudly and nervously holding the long brass rod that would set the candles blazing. Slowly walking to the music, the boys pushed the wheelchair down the aisle. Soon, all heads were turned to follow their progress. The entire congregation had just become aware of the challenge ahead: the series of steps Danny would have to climb to reach the altar. As the wheelchair neared the altar, every breath in the room suspended. We had no idea how they were going to pull this off. Did they plan to carry that heavy wheelchair up those stairs? Would they try to pick him up and carry him? Was this fast becoming a disaster? Kevin and Eric rolled Danny's chair to the foot of the steps and stopped. Every eye was riveted on the three boys and the wheelchair at the front of the church. Slowly, and with a dignity beyond their years, Kevin and Eric ascended the stairs while Danny remained in his chair. Each boy grasped a candlestick and carried it back down the stairs. Reaching Danny's wheelchair, they leaned forward and offered the altar candles to their waiting friend. Danny proudly raised the golden wand and gently lit each candle. Kevin and Eric carefully guarded the flames with cupped palms as they carried the candles back up the stairs and placed them back on the altar. Then they returned to Danny and rotated his chair to face the congregation. Slowly, they wheeled him back down the aisle. Danny's face was a joyous thing to see. His grin blazed through the sanctuary and lit the very rafters of the church, sending a thrill through every heart. He was visibly elated and held the brass candle lighter as though it were a royal scepter. A soft glow seemed to surround the three boys as they walked to the rear of the church. I noticed it took a few minutes before the minister could trust his voice to begin the service. I've often been proud of my sons, but seldom have I been so touched. I had to blink a bit to see their smiling faces as they passed my pew on their way to the rear of the church. But then, my eyes weren't the only ones in the congregation blurred by tears from the pageant of love we had just witnessed. Reprinted from The Inspired Buffalo |
Shipwrecked |
My cat has one ability. No sense of it I make. How is it he falls fast asleep Yet keeps his ears awake? - Unknown Cats Sleep Anywhere Cats sleep anywhere, Any table, Any chair. Top of piano, window-ledge, In the middle, on the edge. Open drawer, empty shoe, Anybody's lap will do, Fitted in a cardboard box, In the cupboard, with your frocks - Anywhere! They don't care! Cats sleep anywhere. - Eleanor Farjeon Cat Kisses Sandpaper kisses On a cheek or a chin - That is the way for a day to begin! Sandpaper kisses A cuddle and a purr. I have an alarm clock That's covered in fur! - Author Unknown Reprinted from More From Rondout |
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