THE MEMORIAL PAGE OF MY ANGEL WIFE IS READY. CLICK THE
LINK BELOW TO VISIT THE SITE ~
Khomting Vaiphei (November 2, 1966 - October 3, 2009) - Memorial Website
MY DAUGHTERS AND I WOULD BE VERY GRATEFUL IF YOU CAN
GRACIOUSLY LOOK UP THE WEBSITE AND ~
1. WRITE CONDOLENCE MESSAGE OR
2. LIGHT A CANDLE (UPTO 130 LETTERS ONLY) OR
3. LEAVE YOUR MEMORIES AND PHOTO BEHIND
WE LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU THERE!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
BILLY THE FIREMAN
In
She took her son's hand and asked, "Billy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be when you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish what you would do with your life?"
"Mommy," he replied, "I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up."
Later that day, she went to her local fire department in
Fireman Bob said, "Look, we can do better than that. If you'll have your son ready at seven o'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him an honorary fireman for the whole day. He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all the fire calls - the whole nine yards! And, if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real fire uniform for him, with a real fire hat - not a toy one - with the emblem of the Phoenix Fire Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots. They're all manufactured right here in
Three days later, Fireman Bob picked up Billy, dressed him in his fire uniform and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck. Billy got to sit on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire station. He was ecstatic. There were three fire calls in
Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Billy that he lived three months longer than any doctor thought possible.
One night, all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head nurse, who believed in the hospice concept that no one should die alone, began to call the family members to the hospital. Then, she remembered the day Billy had spent as a fireman. She called the Fire Chief and asked if it would be possible to send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Billy as he made his transition. The Chief replied, "We can do better than that. We'll be there in five minutes. Will you do me a favor? When you hear the sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA system that there is not a fire? It's just the fire department coming to see one of its finest members one more time. And, will you open the window to his room?"
About five minutes later, a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital and extended its ladder up to Billy's third floor open window. Sixteen firefighters climbed up the ladder into Billy's room. With his mother's permission, they hugged him, held him and told him how much they loved him.
With his dying breath, Billy looked up at the Fire Chief and said, "Chief, am I really a fireman now?"
"Billy, you are. And the Head Chief, Jesus, is holding your hand," the Chief said.
With those words, Billy smiled and said, "I know, He's been holding my hand all day, and the angels have been singing." He closed his eyes one last time.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
A BOX FULL OF KISSES
The story goes that some time ago, a man punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting a roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put under the Christmas tree. Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the next morning and said, "This is for you, Daddy."
The man was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found out the box was empty. He yelled at her, stating, "Don't you know, when you give someone a present, there is supposed to be something inside? The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and cried, "Oh, Daddy, it's not empty at all. I blew kisses into the box. They're all for you, Daddy."
The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged for her forgiveness.
Only a short time later, an accident took the life of the child. It is also told that her father kept that gold box by his bed for many years and, whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.
In a very real sense, each one of us, as humans beings, have been given a gold container filled with unconditional love and kisses... from our children, family members, friends, and God. There is simply no other possession, anyone could hold, more precious than this.
The man was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found out the box was empty. He yelled at her, stating, "Don't you know, when you give someone a present, there is supposed to be something inside? The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and cried, "Oh, Daddy, it's not empty at all. I blew kisses into the box. They're all for you, Daddy."
The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged for her forgiveness.
Only a short time later, an accident took the life of the child. It is also told that her father kept that gold box by his bed for many years and, whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.
In a very real sense, each one of us, as humans beings, have been given a gold container filled with unconditional love and kisses... from our children, family members, friends, and God. There is simply no other possession, anyone could hold, more precious than this.
Monday, April 26, 2010
THE FOUR WIVES
(This story may seem inappropriate but the lesson it can teach us is so compelling that I have been inclined to include it. It is my prayer that readers will truly benefit from it)There was a rich merchant who had 4 wives. He loved the 4th wife the most and adorned her with rich robes and treated her to delicacies. He took great care of her and gave her nothing but the best.
He also loved the 3rd wife very much. He's very proud of her and always wanted to show off her to his friends. However, the merchant is always in great fear that she might run away with some other men.
He too, loved his 2nd wife. She is a very considerate person, always patient and in fact is the merchant's confidante. Whenever the merchant faced some problems, he always turned to his 2nd wife and she would always help him out and tide him through difficult times.
Now, the merchant's 1st wife is a very loyal partner and has made great contributions in maintaining his wealth and business as well as taking care of the household. However, the merchant did not love the first wife and although she loved him deeply, he hardly took notice of her.
One day, the merchant fell ill. Before long, he knew that he was going to die soon. He thought of his luxurious life and told himself, "Now I have 4 wives with me. But when I die, I'll be alone. How lonely I'll be!"
Thus, he asked the 4th wife, "I loved you most, endowed you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me company?" "No way!" replied the 4th wife and she walked away without another word.
The answer cut like a sharp knife right into the merchant's heart. The sad merchant then asked the 3rd wife, "I have loved you so much for all my life. Now that I'm dying, will you follow me and keep me company?" "No!" replied the 3rd wife. "Life is so good over here! I'm going to remarry when you die!" The merchant's heart sank and turned cold.
He then asked the 2nd wife, "I always turned to you for help and you've always helped me out. Now I need your help again. When I die, will you follow me and keep me company?" "I'm sorry, I can't help you out this time!" replied the 2nd wife. "At the very most, I can only send you to your grave." The answer came like a bolt of thunder and the merchant was devastated.
Then a voice called out : "I'll leave with you. I'll follow you no matter where you go." The merchant looked up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny, almost like she suffered from malnutrition. Greatly grieved, the merchant said, "I should have taken much better care of you while I could have !"
Actually, we all have 4 wives in our lives
a. The 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and effort we lavish in making it look good, it'll leave us when we die.
b. Our 3rd wife ? Our possessions, status and wealth. When we die, they all go to others.
c. The 2nd wife is our family and friends. No matter how close they had been there for us when we're alive, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the grave.
d. The 1st wife is in fact our soul, often neglected in our pursuit of material, wealth and sensual pleasure.
Guess what? It is actually the only thing that follows us wherever we go. Perhaps it's a good idea to cultivate and strengthen it now rather than to wait until we're on our deathbed to lament.
THE SECRET TO THEIR SUCCESS
This inspiring article titled "Motivational Speakers and Authors - The Secret to their Success" by Francine Silverman should serve as a pointer to many in their quest for success.
"You become what you think about." Earl Nightingale
"Fear of failure becomes fear of success for those who never try anything new." Wayne Dyer
"You can have everything in life that you want if you will just help enough other people get what they want." Zig Ziglar
The four most prominent motivational speaker-authors share five similarities that help account for their success:
(1) Childhoods laden with hardships
(2) Insatiable curiosity about human potential
(3) Desire to help others
(4) Backgrounds in careers that required speaking and outgoing personalities, i.e, sales, broadcasting or journalism.
(5) Persistence, persistence
Napoleon Hill was born into poverty in rural Virginia and his mother died when he was 10. Earl Nightingale also grew up poor, in Long Beach, California during the Depression, and his father left the family when he was 12. Wayne Dyer spent the first decade of his life in foster homes and orphanages. Zig Ziglar was born in rural Alabama during the Depression and his father died when he was still a boy. From an early age, Napoleon Hill tried to find the answer to how people from meager backgrounds with no discernible advantages manage to reach tremendous heights in life. Striving to overcome a handicap of birth of ignorance and superstition, he studied the greats-Emerson, Paine, Edison, Darwin, Lincoln, Ford, Carnegie and his namesake, Napoleon-and tried to reshape his own character by emulating them. As a mountain reporter working his way through law school, Hill had an assignment to write a series of success stories of famous men and interviewed Andrew Carnegie. The steel magnate then commissioned the young reporter to interview more than 500 millionaires to find a success formula that could be used by the average person. It took Hill over 20 years to produce his ground-breaking book, Think and Grow Rich, in 1937.
In the book, Hill tells a story that illustrates his philosophy that "whatever your mind can conceive and believe it can achieve." A man named Barnes was bent on partnering with Thomas Edison. One day Barnes showed up at Edison's door and Edison thought he looked like a tramp. But impressed with the determination on his face, Edison offered Barnes a job in his office at a nominal wage. It was not exactly the golden horseshoe, but when the opportunity did present itself, it turned out differently than Barnes expected. Edison had invented a dictating machine that left his salesmen unenthused. Barnes knew he could sell it so Edison gave him a contract to market the machine all over the nation. Barnes made a pile of money and proved that he could really "think and grow rich." Like his idol, Napoleon Hill, Earl Nightingale was hungry for knowledge. As a young boy he would frequent the Long Beach Public Library in California, searching for the answer to a question similar to Hills's: "How can a person, starting from scratch, who has no particular advantage in the world, reach the goals that he feels are important to him, and, by so doing, make a major contribution to others?"
As a member of the Marine Corps, Nightingale volunteered to work at a local radio station as an announcer. Years later, he would become host of his own daily commentary program and for three decades was heard on more than 1,000 radio stations across the U.S., Canada, and 10 foreign countries. When he was 29, he read Think and Grow Rich and its message, "We become what we think about," would become his credo. As owner of an insurance company, Nightingale spent time motivating his sales force to greater accomplishments. His sales manager begged him to put his inspirational words on record. The result, entitled The Strangest Secret, reveals the answer to the question that had inspired him as a youth. The recording was also the first spoken word message to win a Gold Record by selling over a million copies.
Zig Ziglar grew up with insecurities and small expectations. As a salesman, he had little confidence until a sales exec told him that if he would only recognize his ability he'd become a great one. Ziglar went on to become a star salesman and many of his books focus on improving the self-esteem of sales people around the world. Dr. Wayne W. Dyer, author of 20 self-help books, is the only author in the self-improvement section of Barnes & Noble on 82nd Street and Broadway, to have a shelf embossed with his name. Affectionately known by fans as the father of motivation, Dyer began his career as an educator and eventually earned a doctorate in counseling psychotherapy.
He too borrowed from Napoleon Hill, especially the philosophy that we become what we think about. One principle he lives by is to focus on what you want and refuse to let anyone stand your way. He uses the example of the Wright Brothers. "I don't think Orville and Wilbur said to each other, 'This thing is heavier than air, so how will it get off the ground?'" How can we emulate these four masters of self-improvement? While we have no control over our birthright, we can expand our curiosity, help others to achieve their dreams, and always keep our eye on the ball.A GIFT OF LOVE
"Can I see my baby?" the happy new mother asked. When the bundle 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. Time proved that the baby's hearing was perfect. It was only his appearance that was marred.
When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into his mother's arms, she sighed, knowing that his life was to be a succession of heartbreaks.
He blurted out the tragedy. "A boy, a big boy...called me a freak." He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow students, he might have been class president, but for that. He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music. "But you might mingle with other young people," his mother reproved him, but felt a kindness in her heart.
The boy's father had a session 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 decided. So the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man. Two years went by. Then, "You are going to the hospital, son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But it's a secret" said the father.
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 treasure lies not in what that can be seen, but what that cannot be seen.
Real love lies not in what is done and known, but in what that is done but not known.
LIFE IS A DO-IT-YOURSELF
An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer-of his plans to leave the house building business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family.
He would miss the paycheck, but he wanted to retire. They could get by. The contractor was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end his career.
When the carpenter finished his work and the builder came to inspect the house, the contractor handed the front-door key to the carpenter. "This is your house," he said, "my gift to you."
What a shock! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently. Now he had to live in the home he had built none too well.
So it is with us. If we build our lives in a distracted way, reacting rather than acting, willing to put up less than the best. At important points we do not give the job our best effort. Then with a shock we look at the situation we have created and find that we are now living in the house we have built. If we had realized that we would have done it differently.
Think of yourself as the carpenter. Think about your house. Each day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Build wisely.
It is the only life you will ever build. Even if you live it for only one day more, that day deserves to be lived graciously and with dignity.
The plaque on the wall says, "Life is a do-it-yourself project."
Your attitudes and the choices you make today will be your life tomorrow, build it wisely.
A MOTHER'S LOVE
A little boy came up to his mother in the kitchen one evening while she was fixing supper, and handed her a piece of paper that he had been writing on. After his Mom dried her hands on an apron, she read it, and this is what it said:
For cutting the grass: $5.00
For cleaning up my room this week: $1.00
For going to the store for you: $.50
Baby-sitting my kid brother while you went shopping: $.25
Taking out the garbage: $1.00
For getting a good report card: $5.00
For cleaning up and raking the yard: $2.00
Total owed: $14.75
Well, his mother looked at him standing there, and the boy could see the memories flashing through her mind. She picked up the pen, turned over the paper he'd written on, and this is what she wrote:
For the nine months I carried you while you were growing inside me:
No Charge
For all the nights that I've sat up with you, doctored and prayed for you:
No Charge
For all the trying times, and all the tears that you've caused through the years:
No Charge
For all the nights that were filled with dread, and for the worries I knew were ahead:
No Charge
For the toys, food, clothes, and even wiping your nose:
No Charge
Son, when you add it up, the cost of my love is:
No Charge.
When the boy finished reading what his mother had written, there were big tears in his eyes, and he looked straight at his mother and said, "Mom, I sure do love you." And then he took the pen and in great big letters he wrote: "PAID IN FULL".
~AUTHOR UNKNOWN~
DREAMS
There are many messages in this story: you are never to old to learn, always pursue your dreams, you are never to old to set your goals and accomplish your dreams, laugh and find humor in everyday, find opportunities in change, especially in today's world where change is moving at a fast pace, don't let change overwhelm you, let change help you find opportunities you may have never seen! have no regrets - her story is so true, so many people use words such as "if only", "I wish", "I can't", etc. Do you have a dream, a wish, then turn it into a goal today - break it down, take one step, then another and accomplish your drea
m.
The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know. I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that that lit up her entire being.
She said, "Hi, handsome. My name is Rose. I'm eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?" I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant squeeze. "Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked. She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, have a couple of children, and then retire and travel." "No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age. "I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told me.
After class we walked to the student union building and share a chocolate milkshake. We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.
Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up. At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."
As we laughed she cleared her throat and began: "We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. "You have to laugh and find humor every day. You've got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die. We have so many people walking around who are dean and don't even know it!" "There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up. If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years old. If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty-eight. Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding the opportunity in change." "Have no regrets. The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets." She concluded her speech by courageously singing The Rose. She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives. At the years end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago.
One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep. Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can possibly be.
~AUTHOR UNKNOWN~
THE WOODEN BOWL
It is my prayer that this story may give you words to
reflect on. I hope you find words of wisdom in the story and learn from it.
A frail old man went to live with his son,
daughter-in-law, and four-year grandson. The old man's hands trembled, his
eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered. The family ate together at the
table. But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating
difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass,
milk spilled on the tablecloth.
The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the
mess. "We must do something about Grandfather," said the son.
"I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the
floor". So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There,
Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed their dinners
together.
Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was
served in a wooden bowl. When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction,
sometimes he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the
couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled
food.
The four-year-old watched it all in silence. One evening
before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the
floor. He asked the child sweetly, "What are you making?" Just as
sweetly, the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and
Mama to eat your food in when you get old." The four year old smiled and
went back to work.
The words so struck the parents that they were
speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken,
both knew what must be done. That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand
and gently led him back to the family table. For the remainder of his days he
ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife
seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the
tablecloth soiled.
On a positive note, I have learned that, no matter what
happens, how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better
tomorrow.
I have learned that you can tell a lot about a person by
the way he/she handles four things: a rainy day, the elderly, lost luggage, and
tangled Christmas tree lights.
I have learned that, regardless of your relationship with
your parents, you will miss them when they are gone from your life.
I have learned that making a 'living ' is not the same
thing as making a 'life'
I have learned that life sometimes gives you a second
chance.
I have learned that you should not go through life with a
catcher's mitt on both hands. You need to be able to throw something back
sometimes.
I have learned that if you pursue happiness, it will
elude you But, if you focus on your family, your friends, the needs of others,
your work and doing the very best you can, happiness will find you.
I have learned that whenever I decide something with an
open heart, I usually make the right decision.
I have learned that even when I have pains, I don't have
to be one.
I have learned that every day, you should reach out and
touch someone.
People love that human touch - holding hands, a warm hug,
or just a friendly pat on the back.
I have learned that I still have a lot to learn.
Remember, children are remarkably perceptive. Their eyes
ever observe, their ears ever listen, and their minds ever process the messages
they absorb. If they see us patiently provide a happy home atmosphere for
family members, they will imitate that attitude for the rest of their lives.
The wise parent realizes that every day that building blocks are being laid for
the child's future.
Let us all be wise builders and role models.
Take care of yourself,
and those you love,
today,
and everyday!
I have learned that you should pass this on to everyone
you care about. I just did!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
SCARS
Some years ago on a hot summer day in south Florida a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind his house.In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went. He flew into the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.
His mother, in the house was looking out the window, saw the two as they got closer and closer together. In utter fear, she ran toward the water, yelling to her son as loudly as she could. Hearing her voice, the little boy became alarmed and made a U-turn to swim to his mother.
It was too late. Just as he reached her, the alligator reached him. From the dock, the mother grabbed her little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs. That began an incredible tug-of-war between the two.
The alligator was much stronger than the mother, but the mother was much too passionate to let go.
A farmer happened to drive by, heard her screams, raced from his truck, took aim and shot the alligator.
Remarkably, after many weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived.
His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the animal.
And on his arms were deep scratches where his mother’s fingernails had dug into his flesh in her effort to hang onto the son she loved.
The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma asked if he would show him his scars. The boy lifted his pant legs and then, with obvious pride, said to the reporter, “But look at my arms. I have great scars on my arms, too. I have them because my mom wouldn’t let go.”
You and I can identify with that little boy. We have scars, too. No, not from an alligator, or anything quite so dramatic. But the scars of a painful past. Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret.
But, my friend, some wounds are because God has refused to let go.
In the midst of your struggle, He’s been there holding on to you. The Scriptures teach that God loves you. If you have Christ in your life, you have become a child of God. He wants to protect you and provide for you in every way.
But sometimes we foolishly wade into dangerous situations. The swimming hole of life is filled with peril - and we forget that the enemy is waiting to attack. That’s when the tug-o-war begins, and if you have the scars of His love on your arms be very, very grateful.
He did not - and will not - let you go. Time is a very precious gift of God; so precious that it’s only given to us moment by moment.
_______________
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
CHRISTMAS EVE IN A LUMBER CAMP
It was due to a mysterious dispensation of Providence and a good deal to Leslie Graeme that I found myself in the heart of the Selkirks for my Christmas eve as the year 1882 was dying. It had been my plan to spend my Christmas far away in Toronto, with such bohemian and boon companions as could be found in that cosmopolitan and kindly city. But Leslie Graeme changed all that, for, discovering me in the village of Black Rock, with my traps all packed, waiting for the stage to start for the Landing, thirty miles away, he bore down upon me with resistless force, and I found myself recovering from my surprise only after we had gone in his lumber sleigh some six miles on our way to his camp up in the mountains. I was surprised and much delighted, though I would not allow him to think so, to find that his old-time power over me was still there. He could always in the old varsity days--dear, wild days--make me do what he liked. He was so handsome and so reckless, brilliant in his class work, and the prince of half backs on the Rugby field, and with such power of fascination as would "extract the heart out of a wheelbarrow," as Barney Lundy used to say. And thus it was that I found myself just three weeks later--I was to have spent two or three days--on the afternoon of December 24, standing in Graeme's Lumber Camp No. 2, wondering at myself. But I did not regret my changed plans, for in those three weeks I had raided a cinnamon bear's den and had wakened up a grizzly---- But I shall let the grizzly finish the tale; he probably sees more humor in it than I.
The camp stood in a little clearing, and consisted of a group of three long, low shanties with smaller shacks near them, all built of heavy, unhewn logs, with door and window in each. The grub camp, with cook-shed attached, stood in the middle of the clearing; at a little distance was the sleeping camp with the office built against it, and about a hundred yards away on the other side of the clearing stood the stables, and near them the smiddy. The mountains rose grandly on every side, throwing up their great peaks into the sky. The clearing in which the camp stood was hewn out of a dense pine forest that filled the valley and climbed halfway up the mountain sides and then frayed out in scattered and stunted trees.
It was one of those wonderful Canadian winter days, bright, and with a touch of sharpness in the air that did not chill, but warmed the blood like drafts of wine. The men were up in the woods, and the shrill scream of the bluejay flashing across the open, the impudent chatter of the red squirrel from the top of the grub camp, and the pert chirp of the whisky-jack, hopping about on the rubbish-heap, with the long, lone cry of the wolf far down the valley, only made the silence felt the more.
As I stood drinking in with all my soul the glorious beauty and the silence of mountain and forest, with the Christmas feeling stealing into me, Graeme came out from his office, and catching sight of me, called out, "Glorious Christmas weather, old chap!" And then, coming nearer, "Must you go to-morrow?"
"I fear so," I replied, knowing well that the Christmas feeling was on him, too.
"I wish I were going with you," he said quietly.
I turned eagerly to persuade him, but at the look of suffering in his face the words died at my lips, for we both were thinking of the awful night of horror when all his bright, brilliant life crashed down about him in black ruin and shame. I could only throw my arm over his shoulder and stand silent beside him. A sudden jingle of bells roused him, and, giving himself a little shake, he exclaimed, "There are the boys coming home."
Soon the camp was filled with men talking, laughing, chaffing like light-hearted boys.
"They are a little wild to-night," said Graeme, "and to-morrow they'll paint Black Rock red."
Before many minutes had gone the last teamster was "washed up," and all were standing about waiting impatiently for the cook's signal--the supper to-night was to be "something of a feed"--when the sound of bells drew their attention to a light sleigh drawn by a buckskin broncho coming down the hillside at a great pace.
"The preacher, I'll bet, by his driving," said one of the men.
"Bedad, and it's him has the foine nose for turkey!" said Blaney, a good-natured, jovial Irishman.
"Yes, or for pay-day, more like," said Keefe, a black-browed, villainous fellow countryman of Blaney's and, strange to say, his great friend.
Big Sandy McNaughton, a Canadian Highlander from Glengarry, rose up in wrath.
"Bill Keefe," said he with deliberate emphasis, "you'll just keep your dirty tongue off the minister; and as for your pay, it's little he sees of it, or any one else except Mike Slavin, when you's too dry to wait for some one to treat you, or perhaps Father Ryan, when the fear of hell-fire is on you."
The men stood amazed at
"_Bon!_ Dat's good for you, my bully boy," said Baptiste, a wiry little French-Canadian, Sandy's sworn ally and devoted admirer ever since the day when the big Scotchman, under great provocation, had knocked him clean off the dump into the river and then jumped in for him.
It was not till afterward I learned the cause of
Keefe started up with a curse. Baptiste sprang to
"You keel him, I'll hit [eat] him up, me."
It looked as if there might be a fight, when a harsh voice said in a low, savage tone:
"Stop your row, you fools; settle it, if you want to, somewhere else."
I turned, and was amazed to see old man Nelson, who was very seldom moved to speech.
There was a look of scorn on his hard iron-gray face, and of such settled fierceness as made me quite believe the tales I had heard of his deadly fights in the mines at the coast. Before any reply could be made the minister drove up and called out in a cheery voice:
"Merry Christmas, boys! Hello,
"First rate. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Connor, sometime medical student, now artist, hunter, and tramp at large, but not a bad sort."
"A man to be envied," said the minister, smiling. "I am glad to know any friend of Mr. Graeme's."
I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had good eyes that looked straight out at you, a clean-cut, strong face well set on his shoulders, and altogether an upstanding, manly bearing. He insisted on going with
"Decent fellow," said Graeme; "but though he is good enough to his broncho, it is
"Does he come out often? I mean, are you part of his parish, so to speak?"
"I have no doubt he thinks so; and I'm blowed if he doesn't make the Presbyterians of us think so too." And he added after a pause: "A dandy lot of parishioners we are for any man. There's Sandy, now, he would knock Keefe's head off as a kind of religious exercise; but to-morrow Keefe will be sober and Sandy will be drunk as a lord, and the drunker he is the better Presbyterian he'll be, to the preacher's disgust." Then after another pause he added bitterly: "But it is not for me to throw rocks at
Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dishpan. Baptiste answered with a yell. But though keenly hungry, no man would demean himself to do other than walk with apparent reluctance to his place at the table. At the further end of the camp was a big fireplace, and from the door of the fireplace extended the long board tables, covered with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved, dishes of potatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smaller dishes distributed at regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the roof and a row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by means of slit sticks cast a dim, weird light over the scene.
There was a moment's silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig rose and said:
"I don't know how you feel about it, men, but to me this looks good enough to be thankful for."
"Fire ahead, sir," called out a voice quite respectfully, and the minister bent his head and said:
"For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for all the love and goodness we have known, and for these Thy gifts to us this Christmas night, our Father, make us thankful. Amen."
"_Bon!_ Dat's fuss rate," said Baptiste. "Seems lak dat's make me hit [eat] more better for sure." And then no word was spoken for a quarter of an hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments too precious for anything so empty as words. But when the white piles of bread and the brown piles of turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the last pie had disappeared, there came a pause and a hush of expectancy, whereupon the cook and cookee, each bearing aloft a huge, blazing pudding, came forth.
"Hooray!" yelled Blaney; "up wid yez!" and grabbing the cook by the shoulders from behind, he faced him about.
Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the cookee in the same way, called out: "Squad, fall in! quick march!" In a moment every man was in the procession.
"Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!" shouted Blaney, the appellation a concession to the minister's presence; and away went Baptiste in a rollicking French song with the English chorus—
Then blow, ye winds, in the morning,
Blow, ye winds, ay oh!
Blow, ye winds, in the morning,
Blow, blow, blow.
And at each "blow" every boot came down with a thump on the plank floor that shook the solid roof. After the second round Mr. Craig jumped upon the bench and called out:
"Three cheers for Billy the cook!"
In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was heard to say:
"_Bon!_ Dat's mak me feel lak hit dat puddin' all hup meself, me."
"Hear till the little baste!" said Blaney in disgust.
"Batchees," remonstrated
"Fu sure! but de more stomach, dat's more better for dis puddin'," replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.
After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall and pipes were produced. In all attitudes suggestive of comfort the men disposed themselves in a wide circle about the fire, which now roared and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from the roof. The lumberman's hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from the fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the second pipes were well a-going one of the men took down a violin from the wall and handed it to Lachlan Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just out from Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the face of a mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to his brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting, sarcastic speech.
In a moment the floor was filled with dancers, whooping and cracking their fingers in the wildest manner. Then Baptiste did the "Red River Jig," a most intricate and difficult series of steps, the men keeping time to the music with hands and feet.
When the jig was finished
"No! no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig will play."
Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no ordinary player. I did not recognize the music, but it was soft and thrilling, and got in by the heart till every one was thinking his tenderest and saddest thoughts.
After he had played two or three exquisite bits he gave
Without a word Lachlan began, not "Lochaber"--he was not ready for that yet--but "The Flowers o' the Forest," and from that wandered through "Auld Robin Gray" and "The Land o' the Leal," and so got at last to that most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, "Lochaber No More." At the first strain his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets behind the fire, turned over on his face feigning sleep. Sandy McNaughton took his pipe out of his mouth and sat up straight and stiff, staring into vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, sharp breath. We had often sat, Graeme and I, in our student days, in the drawing-room at home, listening to his father wailing out "Lochaber" upon the pipes, and I well knew that the awful minor strains were now eating their way into his soul.
Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long since forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs and glens of his far-away native land, and making us, too, see strange things out of the dim past. I glanced at old man Nelson, and was startled at the eager, almost piteous look in his eyes, and I wished
Without a moment's pause, and while the spell of "Lochaber" was still upon us, the minister, with exquisite skill, fell into the refrain of that simple and beautiful camp-meeting hymn, "The Sweet By-and-By." After playing the verse through once he sang softly the refrain. After the first verse the men joined in the chorus; at first timidly, but by the time the third verse was reached they were shouting with throats full open, "We shall meet on that beautiful shore." When I looked at Nelson the eager light had gone out of his eyes, and in its place was a kind of determined hopelessness, as if in this new music he had no part.
After the voices had ceased Mr. Craig played again the refrain, more and more softly and slowly; then laying the violin on
"Men, with Mr. Graeme's permission I want to read you something this Christmas eve. You will all have heard it before, but you will like it none the less for that."
His voice was soft, but clear and penetrating, as he read the eternal story of the angels and the shepherds and the Babe. And as he read, a slight motion of the hand or a glance of an eye made us see, as he was seeing, that whole radiant drama. The wonder, the timid joy, the tenderness, the mystery of it all, were borne in upon us with overpowering effect. He closed the book, and in the same low, clear voice went on to tell us how, in his home years ago, he used to stand on Christmas eve listening in thrilling delight to his mother telling him the story, and how she used to make him see the shepherds and hear the sheep bleating near by, and how the sudden burst of glory used to make his heart jump.
"I used to be a little afraid of the angels, because a boy told me they were ghosts; but my mother told me better, and I didn't fear them any more. And the Baby, the dear little Baby--we all love a baby." There was a quick, dry sob; it was from Nelson. "I used to peek through under to see the little one in the straw, and wonder what things swaddling clothes were. Oh, it was so real and so beautiful!" He paused, and I could hear the men breathing.
"But one Christmas eve," he went on in a lower, sweeter tone, "there was no one to tell me the story, and I grew to forget it and went away to college, and learned to think that it was only a child's tale and was not for men. Then bad days came to me and worse, and I began to lose my grip of myself, of life, of hope, of goodness, till one black Christmas, in the slums of a far-away city, when I had given up all and the devil's arms were about me, I heard the story again. And as I listened, with a bitter ache in my heart--for I had put it all behind me--I suddenly found myself peeking under the shepherds' arms with a child's wonder at the Baby in the straw. Then it came over me like great waves that His name was Jesus, because it was He that should save men from their sins. Save! Save! The waves kept beating upon my ears, and before I knew I had called out, 'Oh! can He save me?' It was in a little mission meeting on one of the side streets, and they seemed to be used to that sort of thing there, for no one was surprised; and a young fellow leaned across the aisle to me and said: 'Why, you just bet He can!' His surprise that I should doubt, his bright face and confident tone, gave me hope that perhaps it might be so. I held to that hope with all my soul, and"--stretching up his arms, and with a quick glow in his face and a little break in his voice--"He hasn't failed me yet; not once, not once!"
He stopped quite short, and I felt a good deal like making a fool of myself, for in those days I had not made up my mind about these things. Graeme, poor old chap, was gazing at him with a sad yearning in his dark eyes; big Sandy was sitting very stiff and staring harder than ever into the fire; Baptiste was trembling with excitement; Blaney was openly wiping the tears away, but the face that held my eyes was that of old man Nelson. It was white, fierce, hungry-looking, his sunken eyes burning, his lips parted as if to cry. The minister went on.
"I didn't mean to tell you this, men; it all came over me with a rush; but it is true, every word, and not a word will I take back. And, what's more, I can tell you this: what He did for me He can do for any man, and it doesn't make any difference what's behind him, and"--leaning slightly forward, and with a little thrill of pathos vibrating in his voice--"oh, boys, why don't you give Him a chance at you? Without Him you'll never be the men you want to be, and you'll never get the better of that that's keeping some of you now from going back home. You know you'll never go back till you're the men you want to be." Then, lifting up his face and throwing back his head, he said, as if to himself, "Jesus! He shall save His people from their sins," and then, "Let us pray."
Graeme leaned forward with his face in his hands; Baptiste and Blaney dropped on their knees;
Only once before had I seen that look on a human face. A young fellow had broken through the ice on the river at home, and as the black water was dragging his fingers one by one from the slippery edges, there came over his face that same look. I used to wake up for many a night after in a sweat of horror, seeing the white face with its parting lips and its piteous, dumb appeal, and the black water slowly sucking it down.
Nelson's face brought it all back; but during the prayer the face changed and seemed to settle into resolve of some sort, stern, almost gloomy, as of a man with his last chance before him.
After the prayer Mr. Craig invited the men to a Christmas dinner next day in Black Rock. "And because you are an independent lot, we'll charge you half a dollar for dinner and the evening show." Then leaving a bundle of magazines and illustrated papers on the table--a godsend to the men--he said good-by and went out.
I was to go with the minister, so I jumped into the sleigh first and waited while he said good-by to Graeme, who had been hard hit by the whole service and seemed to want to say something. I heard Mr. Craig say cheerfully and confidently: "It's a true bill: try Him."
Sandy, who had been steadying Dandy while that interesting broncho was attempting with great success to balance himself on his hind legs, came to say good-by.
"Come and see me first thing,
"Aye! I know; I'll see ye, Mr. Craig," said
"Steady, you idiot!"
This was to Dandy, who had taken a sudden side spring into the deep snow, almost upsetting us. A man stepped out from the shadow. It was old man Nelson. He came straight to the sleigh and, ignoring my presence completely, said:
"Mr. Craig, are you dead sure of this? Will it work?"
"Do you mean," said Craig, taking him up promptly, "can Jesus Christ save you from your sins and make a man of you?"
The old man nodded, keeping his hungry eyes on the other's face.
"Well, here's His message to you: 'The Son of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost.'"
"To me? To me?" said the old man eagerly.
"Listen; this, too, is His word: 'Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out.' That's for you, for here you are, coming."
"You don't know me, Mr. Craig. I left my baby fifteen years ago because----"
"Stop!" said the minister. "Don't tell me, at least not to-night; perhaps never. Tell Him who knows it all now and who never betrays a secret. Have it out with Him. Don't be afraid to trust Him."
Nelson looked at him, with his face quivering, and said in a husky voice:
"If this is no good, it's hell for me."
"If it is no good," replied Craig almost sternly, "it's hell for all of us."
The old man straightened himself up, looked up at the stars, then back at Mr. Craig, then at me, and drawing a deep breath said:
"I'll try Him." As he was turning away the minister touched him on the arm and said quietly:
"Keep an eye on
Nelson nodded and we went on; but before we took the next turn I looked back and saw what brought a lump into my throat. It was old man Nelson on his knees in the snow, with his hands spread upward to the stars, and I wondered if there was any One above the stars and nearer than the stars who could see. And then the trees hid him from my sight.
by Ralph Connor
Friday, April 23, 2010
A PICTURE OF JESUS
A very miraculous event happened some fifty odd years ago, back in the days when the little black and white 'Brownie' cameras were popular, and my Grandmother is still in possession of a photograph that our family simply calls Jesus' picture...for indeed, that is exactly what it is.
It happened down south, during the days when the elders of a church would literally pile into wagons (for very few farming folks had automobiles back then),and go to the house of an atheist (or unbeliever, as folks called them back then), to try and turn such folks 'in the right direction', telling them of the salvation offered by Jesus.
My Grandfather, a preacher himself, often spoke the words from the Bible~ (Ezekiel 3-18),which tells us of our responsibility as Christians to tell such people of the gift of eternal salvation, for according to this verse, the blood of those folks will be 'upon' us if we don't. Taking this into consideration, this is what transpired that day.
There was a woman in the area who was a self-proclaimed atheist, and the church elders went to her home one Sunday in order to 'do their duty' as Christians should. My Grandpa's brother was present, along with his wife. They talked and prayed for a long time, more or less in a 'spiritual wrestle' with this woman, who would have none of it.
The next thing that happened is a true miracle...Apparently she couldn't or wouldn't listen to anymore of the gospel, and flew into a fury! Having a little 'brownie' camera in her house, she ran from the room and out into the yard. Then, in vision and earshot of everyone present, she cursed God with horrible, blasphemous words.
She then held the camera up to the sky (which was a beautiful, cloud-less day) and screamed out these words, along with more cursing of course..."If there be a God up there, or anywhere, let him show his face!" And with that said, she snapped the photograph, gave the camera to the closest person, and stomped into her house in a rage. What follows is bitter-sweet.
The film was developed, putting the fear of God into those in the church who only THOUGHT they had it before!! The photo was taken to the womans house, and she was called out to look at it. One look at the black and white photo of those sad eyes set in the obvious divine face of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the atheist woman gasped, and hit the ground with a thump!
No, she wasn't dead, but may as well have been, for she went totally and completely mad, and was hospitalized in a mental institution until her death a short time later.
No one knows if she accepted Jesus as her saviour after that or not, but my Grandmother was intrusted with the actual photo, which is still in the little black triangles inside her very old black-paper photo album. I have copies of it, as well as a video of my Grandmother holding the album while telling the story. The original is still in pretty good shape, considering it is over 50 years old, and those same haunting, remorseful eyes stare out at you in a pleading sort of way.
Having it in mind to 'show the picture to the whole world', I had the copies made. However, after some thought and consideration, as well as advice from family members, warning against exploitation of such a treasure by this commercialized, profit-gaining world, I put that thought aside.
I so wanted to share it with everyone, along with the story, in order to possibly save a few precious souls from damnation. But I cannot let such a humbling gift from God be exploited, and so I opted to just 'tell the story', and if only the story turns ONE life around, sending ONE more soul into God's army, then it will be even more of a treasure than it is now!
This is a completely TRUE story, as told to me by my Grandmother and Grandpa (a preacher himself), and told exactly as I heard it. Of course, I wasn't there when the thing happened, but I can vouch for the photo of Jesus. As God is my witness, that picture was created by the Lord in order to 'open' a poor lost soul's eyes.
Whether it did or not is only known by God almighty now...but I certainly hope and pray that she did not pass from this life without the love of Jesus Christ in her heart...And that is yet another miracle of God that took place in the 'Bible Belt' of the deep south so many years ago. Isn't it good to know that God loves us so very much, that every now and again, he gives us a tiny little glimpse of his own heart?! Praise God!
COPYRIGHT: Angela Evon Walker
BROTHER MILLER'S ROADSIDE STAND
During the waning years of the depression in a small south eastern Idahoan community, I used to stop by Brother Miller's roadside stand for farm-fresh produce as the season made it available. Food and money were still extremely scarce and bartering was used, extensively. One particular day Brother Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of freshly picked green peas. I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Brother Miller and the ragged boy next to me.
"Hello Barry, how are you today?"
"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas... sure look good."
"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"
"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."
"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."
"Would you like to take some home?"
"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"
"All I got's my prize marble here."
"Is that right? Let me see it."
"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"
"Not 'zackley... but, almost."
"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble."
"Sure will. Thanks, Mr. Miller."
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said: "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, perhaps."
I left the stand, smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to
Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts... very professional looking.
They approached Mrs. Miller, standing smiling and composed, by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary, awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. Eyes glistening she took my hand and led me to the casket. "Those three young men, that just left, were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size... they came to pay their debt.
_______________AUTHOR UNKNOWN
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