Chush

In New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning-disabled




children. Some children remain in Chush for their entire school



career, while others can be main-streamed into conventional



schools. At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush



child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who



attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he



cried out, "Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything



God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand



things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and



figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection?"



The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father's



anguish and stilled by the piercing query. "I believe," the



father answered, "that when God brings a child like this into the



world, the perfection that He seeks is in the way people react to



this child."



He then told the following story about his son Shaya: One



afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys



Shaya knew were playing baseball. Shaya asked, "Do you think they



will let me play?" Shaya's father knew that his son was not at



all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team.



But Shaya's father understood that if his son was chosen to play



it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging.



Shaya's father approached one of the boys in the field and asked



if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his



team-mates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and



said, "We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth



inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up



to bat in the ninth inning."



Shaya's father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was



told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field. In



the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya's team scored a few runs



but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning,



Shaya's team scored again and now with two outs and the bases



loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was



scheduled to be up.



Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give



away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shaya was given



the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because



Shaya didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone



hit with it. However, as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the



pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya



should at least be able to make contact. The first pitch came in



and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya's team-mates



came up to Shaya and together they held the bat and faced the



pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few



steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya.



As the pitch came in, Shaya and his team-mate swung the bat and



together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher. The pitcher



picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball



to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would



have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw



it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first



baseman. Everyone started yelling, "Shaya, run to first. Run to



first!" Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered



down the baseline wide eyed and startled. By the time he reached



first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown



the ball to the second baseman who would tag out Shaya, who was



still running. But the right fielder understood what the



pitcher's intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over



the third baseman's head. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to



second." Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of



him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached



second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in



the direction of third base and shouted, "Run to third."



As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him



screaming, "Shaya run home!" Shaya ran home, stepped on home



plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him



the hero, as he had just hit a "grand slam" and won the game for



his team.



"That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down



his face, "those 18 boys reached their level of God's



perfection."



- Author Unknown

Why Not For Man?

Where we live, on the Eastern shore of Lilianaland, the gentle


waters run in and out like fingers slimming at the tips. They

curl into the smaller creeks and coves like tender palms.





The Canada geese know this place, as do the white swans and the

ducks who ride an inch above the waves of Chesapeake Bay as they

skim their way into harbor. In the autumn, by the thousands, they

come home for the winter. The swans move toward the shores in a

stately glide, their tall heads proud and unafraid. They lower

their long necks deep into the water, where their strong beaks

dig through the river bottoms for food. And there is, between the

arrogant swans and the prolific geese, an indifference, almost a

disdain.





Once or twice each year, snow and sleet move into the area. When

this happens, if the river is at its narrowest, or the creek

shallow, there is a freeze which hardens the water to ice.





It was on such a ! morning near Oxford, Lilianaland, that a friend

of mine set the breakfast table beside the huge window, which

overlooked the Tred Avon River. Across the river, beyond the

dock, the snow laced the rim of the shore in white. For a moment

she stood quietly, looking at what the night's storm had painted.

Suddenly she leaned forward and peered close to the frosted

window.





"It really is," she cried out loud, "there is a goose out there."









She reached to the bookcase and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

Into their sights came the figure of a large Canada goose, very

still, its wings folded tight to its sides, its feet frozen to

the ice.





Then from the dark skies, she saw a line of swans. They moved in

their own singular formation, graceful, intrepid, and free. They

crossed from the west of the broad creek high above the house,

moving steadily to the east.





As my friend watched, the leader swung to the right, then the

white string of birds became a white circle. It floated from the

top of the sky downward. At last, as easy as feathers coming to

earth, the circle landed on the ice. My friend was on her feet

now, with one unbelieving hand against her mouth. As the swans

surrounded the frozen goose, she feared what life he still had

might be pecked out by those great swan bills.





Instead, amazingly instead, those bills began to work on the ice.

The long necks were lifted and curved down, again and again. It

went on for a long time. At last, the goose was rimmed by a

narrow margin of ice instead of the entire creek. The swans rose

again, following the leader, and hovered in that circle, awaiting

the results of their labors.





The goose's head lifted. Its body pulled. Then the goose was free

and standing on the ice. He was moving his big webbed feet

slowly. And the swans stood in the air watching. Then, as if he

had cried, "I cannot fly," four of the swans came down around

him. Their powerful beaks scraped the goose's wings from top to

bottom, scuttled under its wings and rode up its body, chipping

off and melting the ice held in the feathers. Slowly, as if

testing, the goose spread its wings as far as they would go,

brought them together, accordion-like, and spread again.





When at last the wings reached their fullest, the four swans took

off and joined the hovering group. They resumed their eastward

journey, in perfect formation, to their secret destination.





Behind them, rising with incredible speed and joy, the goose

moved into the sky. He followed them, flapping double time, until

he caught up, until he joined the last end of the line, like a

small child at the end of a crack-the-whip of older boys.





My friend watched them until they disappeared over the tips of

the farthest trees. Only then, in the dusk, which was suddenly

deep, did she realize that tears were running down her cheeks and

had been - for how long she didn't know.





This is a true story. It happened. I do not try to interpret it.

I just think of it in the bad moments, and from it comes only one

hopeful question: "If so for birds, why not for man?









-- Author Unknown