How Much For A Miracle?

Tess was a precocious eight years old when she heard her Mom and Dad
talking about her little brother, Andrew. All she knew was that he
was very sick and they were completely out of money. They were moving
to an apartment complex next month because Daddy didn't have the
money for the doctor bills and our house. Only a very costly surgery
could save him now and it was looking like there was no-one to loan
them the money. She heard Daddy say to her tearful Mother with
whispered desperation, "Only amiracle can save him now."
Tess went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its
hiding place in the closet. She poured all the change out on the
floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even. The total had to
be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing
the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out
the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall's Drug Store with
the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention
but he was too intently talking to another man to be bothered by an
eight year old at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a
scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most
disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally she took a
quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
"And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of
voice. "I'm talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven't seen in
ages," he said without waiting for a reply to his question.
"Well, I want to talk to you about my brother," Tess answered back
in the same annoyed tone. "He's really, really sick ... and I want to
buy a miracle."
"I beg your pardon?" said the pharmacist.
"His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head
and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a
miracle cost?"
"We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I'm sorry but I can't
help you." the pharmacist said, softening a little.
"Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn't enough, I will
get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs."
The pharmacist's brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and
asked the little girl, "What kind of a miracle does you brother need?"
"I don't know," Tess replied with her eyes welling up. "I just know
he's really sick and Mommy says he needs a operation. But my Daddy
can't pay for it, so I want to use my money. "How much do you have?"
asked the man from Chicago.
"One dollar and eleven cents," Tess answered barely audibly. "And
it's all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to."
"Well, what a coincidence," smiled the man. "A dollar and eleven
cents -- the exact price of a miracle for little brothers." He took
her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her and said
"Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your
parents. Let's see if I have the kind of miracle you need."
That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, a surgeon,
specializing in neuro-surgery. The operation was completed without
charge and it wasn't long until Andrew was home again and doing well.
Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had
led them to this place. "That surgery," her mom whispered. "was a
real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?"
Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost... one dollar
and eleven cents....plus the faith of a little child.
- Author Unknown

A Gift Of Pure Love

This tale of love has helped many people find happiness and build
self-esteem over the years. "Can I see my bundle of joy?" the
happy new mother asked, ready to pour love and affection on her
new child. When the baby was nestled in her arms and she moved
the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny face, she gasped. The
doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital window.
The baby had been born without ears.
Over time, it became clear that the baby's hearing was just fine.
It was only his appearance that was marred. One day he rushed
home from school and flung himself into his mother's arms. She
sighed deeply, recognizing that his life was to be a succession
of heartbreaks. He blurted out the tragedy. "A boy, a big
boy...called me a freak." Surely this boy would never find peace
or happiness.
He developed a gift for literature and music, his solace in a
hostile world. "But you might mingle with other young people,"
has mother told him, although she understood why he focused on
solitary pursuits.
The boy's father met with the family physician. Could nothing be
done? "I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears if they
could be procured" the doctor advised. That's when the search
began? Who would make such a sacrifice for a young man. Two years
went by. Two years of searching. Two years of frustration. Then
his father told him, "You are going to the hospital, son. Mother
and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But it's a
secret."
The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged.
His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became
a series of triumphs. Later he married and entered the diplomatic
service. "But I must know!" He urged his father. "Who gave so
much for me? I could never do enough for him."
"I do not believe you could," said the father, "but the agreement
was that you are not to know...not yet." The years kept their
profound secret, but the day did come . . . one of the darkest
days that ever pass through a son. He stood with his father over
his mother's casket. Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth
a hand and raised the thick, reddish-brown hair to reveal .. .
that the mother had no outer ears.
"Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut," he
whispered gently, "and nobody ever thought mother less beautiful,
did they"?
Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance, but in the
heart. Real treasure lies not in what that can be seen, but what
that cannot be seen. True love lies not in what is done and
known, but in what that is done but not known.
-- Author Unknown

Barnyard Duck

One day, Wally, one of the wild ducks in the formation, spotted
something on the ground that caught his eye. It was a barnyard
with a flock of tame ducks who lived on the farm. They were
waddling around on the ground, quacking merrily and eating corn
that was thrown on the ground for them every day. Wally liked
what he saw. "It sure would be nice to have some of that corn,"
he thought to himself. "And all this flying is very tiring. I'd
like to just waddle around for a while."
So after thinking it over a while, Wally left the formation of
wild ducks, made a sharp dive to the left, and headed for the
barnyard. He landed among the tame ducks, and began to waddle
around and quack merrily. He also started eating corn. The
formation of wild ducks continued their journey South, but Wally
didn't care. "I'll rejoin them when they come back North in a few
months, he said to himself.
Several months went by and sure enough, Wally looked up and
spotted the flock of wild ducks in formation, heading north. They
looked beautiful up there. And Wally was tired of the barnyard.
It was muddy and everywhere he waddled, nothing but duck doo.
"It's time to leave," said Wally.
So Wally flapped his wings furiously and tried to get airborne.
But he had gained some weight from all his corn-eating, and he
hadn't exercised his wings much either. He finally got off the
ground, but he was flying too low and slammed into the side of
the barn. He fell to the ground with a thud and said to himself,
"Oh, well, I'll just wait until they fly south in a few months.
Then I'll rejoin them and become a wild duck again."
But when the flock flew overhead once more, Wally again tried to
lift himself out of the barnyard. He simply didn't have the
strength. Every winter and every spring, he saw his wild duck
friends flying overhead, and they would call out to him. But his
attempts to leave were all in vain.
Eventually Wally no longer paid any attention to the wild ducks
flying overhead. He hardly even noticed them. He had, after all,
become a barnyard duck.
Sometimes we get tired of being the kind of ducks we should be --
followers of Jesus Christ. It's not always easy to be obedient to
God and to discipline ourselves to hang in there for the long
haul. When we are feeling that way, that's when Satan tempts us
to "fall out of formation" and to join the barnyard ducks -- the
worldly ways of life.
But look what happened to Wally. He thought he would just "check-
it-out" for awhile and then leave when he wanted to. But he
couldn't do it. Sin is like that. Sin is a trap, and it has a way
of changing us into people we don't even want to become.
Eventually we lose touch with who we really are -- the sons and
daughters of the Most High. We become barnyard ducks.
-- Author Unknown

Guess What????

The American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal
Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked.
Inside the small boat were several large yellow fin tuna. The
American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and
asked how long it took to catch them.
The Mexican replied, "Only a little while."
The American then asked, "Why didn't you stay out longer and
catch more fish?"
The Mexican said, "With this I have more than enough to support
my family's needs."
The American then asked, "But what do you do with the rest of
your time?"
The Mexican fisherman said, "I sleep late, fish a little, play
with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into
the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my
amigos, I have a full and busy life."
The American scoffed, "I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You
should spend more time fishing; and with the proceeds, buy a
bigger boat: With the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy
several boats. Eventually you would have a fleet of fishing
boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would
sell directly to the processor; eventually opening your own
cannery. You would control the product, processing and
distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing
village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles and eventually
New York where you will run your ever-expanding enterprise."
The Mexican fisherman asked, "But, how long will this all take?"
To which the American replied, "15 to 20 years."
"But what then?" asked the Mexican.
The American laughed and said that's the best part. "When the
time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company
stock to the public and become very rich, you would make
millions."
"Millions?...Then what?"
The American said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small
coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a
little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll
to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play
your guitar with your amigos."
-- Author Unknown

We Are All Winners

Last night was the last game for my eight-year-old son's soccer
team. It was the final quarter. The score was two to one, my
son's team in the lead. Parents shouted encouragement from the
sidelines as the boys clashed on the field. With less than ten
seconds remaining, the ball rolled in front of my son's teammate,
one Mikey O'Donnel. With shouts of "Kick it!" echoing across the
field, Mikey reared back and gave it everything he had.
All around me the crowd fell silent as the ball flew into the
goal. Mikey O'Donnel had scored!
Mikey had scored all right, but in the wrong goal, ending the
game in a tie. For a moment there was total silence. You see
Mikey has Down's Syndrome and for him there is no such thing as a
wrong goal. All goals were celebrated by a joyous hug from Mikey.
He had even been known to hug the opposing players when they
scored.
The silence was finally broken when Mikey, his face filled with
joy, grabbed my son, hugged him and yelled, "I scored! I scored.
Everybody won! Everybody won!"
For a moment I held my breath, not sure how my son would react. I
need not have worried. I watched, through tears, as my son threw
up his hand in the classic high-five salute and started chanting,
"Way to go Mikey! Way to go Mikey!"
Within moments, both teams surrounded Mikey, joining in the chant
and congratulating him on his goal. Later that night, when my
daughter asked who had won, my son smiled and replied, "It was a
tie. Everybody won!"
Author Unknown

What Two Days Can Do

Our house was directly across the street from the clinic entrance of
Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented
the upstairs rooms to out patients at the clinic. One summer evening
as I was fixing supper, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to
see a truly awful looking man. “Why, he’s hardly taller than my eight
year old,” I thought as I stared at the stooped, shriveled body. But
the appalling thing was his face – lopsided from swelling, red and
raw. Yet his voice was pleasant as he said, “Good evening. I’ve come
to see if you’ve a room for just one night. I came for a treatment
this morning from the eastern shore, and there’s no bus ’til
morning.” He told me he’d been hunting for a room since noon but with
no success, no one seemed to have a room. “I guess it’s my face…I
know it looks terrible, but my doctor says with a few more
treatments…”
For a moment I hesitated, but his next words convinced me: “I could
sleep in this rocking chair on the porch. My bus leaves early in the
morning.” I told him we would find him a bed, but to rest on the
porch. I went inside and finished getting supper. When we were ready,
I asked the old man if he would join us. “No thank you. I have
plenty.” And he held up a brown paper bag.
When I finished the dishes, I went out on the porch to talk with him
a few minutes. It didn’t take a long time to see that this old man
had an oversized heart crowded into that tiny body. He told me he
fished for a living to support his daughter, her five children, and
her husband, who was hopelessly crippled from a back injury. He
didn’t tell it by way of complaint; in fact, every other sentence was
preface with a thanks to God for a blessing. He was grateful that no
pain accompanied his disease, which was apparently a form of skin
cancer. He thanked God for giving him the strength to keep going. At
bedtime, we put a camp cot in the children’s room for him. When I got
up in the morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and the little
man was out on the porch. He refused breakfast, but just before he
left for his bus, haltingly, as if asking a great favor, he said
“Could I please come back and stay next time I have a treatment? I
won’t put you out a bit, I can sleep fine in a chair.” He paused a
moment and then added, “Your children made me feel at home. Grown-ups
are bothered by my face, but children don’t seem to mind.” I told him
he was welcome to come again.
On his next trip he arrived a little after seven in the morning. As
a gift, he brought a big fish and a quart of the largest oysters I
had ever seen. He said he had shucked them that morning before he
left so that they’d be nice and fresh. I knew his bus left at 4:00 am
and I wondered what time he had to get up in order to do this for us.
In the years he came to stay overnight with us there was never a time
that he did not bring us fish or oysters or vegetables from his
garden. Other times we received packages in the mail, always by
special delivery; fish and oysters packed in a box of fresh young
spinach or kale, every leaf carefully washed. Knowing that he must
walk three miles to mail these, and knowing how little money he had
made the gifts doubly precious. When I received these little
remembrances, I often thought of a comment our next-door neighbor
made after he left that first morning. “Did you keep that awful
looking man last night? I turned him away! You can lose roomers by
putting up such people!”
Maybe we did lose roomers once or twice. But oh! If only they could
have know him, perhaps their illness’ would have been easier to bear.
I know our family will always be grateful to have know him; from him
we learned what it was to accept the bad without complaint and the
good with gratitude to God.
Recently I was visiting a friend who has a greenhouse. As she showed
me her flowers, we came to the most beautiful one of all, a golden
chrysanthemum, bursting with blooms. But to my surprise, it was
growing in an old dented, rusty bucket. I thought to myself, “If this
were my plant, I’d put it in the loveliest container I had!”
My friend changed my mind. “I ran short of pots,” she explained,
“and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn’t
mind starting out in this old pail. It’s just for a little while,
till I can put it out in the garden.”
She must have wondered why I laughed so delightedly, but I was
imagining just such a scene in heaven. “Here’s an especially
beautiful one,” God might have said when he came to the soul of the
seet old fisherman. “He won’t mind starting in this small body.” All
this happened long ago and now, in God’s garden, how tall this lovely
soul must stand.
The Lord does not look at the things man looks at.
Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.
– Author Unknown