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WEEKLY FOOD FOR THOUGHT Need an inspirational thought...a chuckle or two... something to inspire you and get you through the day? Well, you've come to the right place. Check here at least weekly for new bits of inspiration. Sometimes more than once per week...sometimes not...but check often so you don't miss anything. * * * * * * * * *
* * (Friday, October 31) HE'LL SEE THEM HOME Don't
despair so of your children, So lay
them at His altar, --Joyce Henning * * * * * * * * * * (Wednesday, October 29) My co-worker and I were making a sales call to a rural Baptist church. We gave our presentation to the church committee, and then the group's chairman walked to the altar and knelt down. After a minute of silent prayer, he returned in a solemn tone. "The Lord tells me we should wait." My colleague responded by walking to the altar and kneeling down himself. Then he returned to the group, looked at the chairman and declared, "He wants to talk with you again." --Harold Lamb * * * * * * * * * * * (Monday, October 27) HOPE
* * * * * * * * * * * (Sunday, October 26) As long as Jesus is one of many options, he is no option. As long as you can carry your burdens alone, you don't need a burden bearer. As long as your situation brings you no grief, you will receive no comfort. And as long as you can take him or leave him, you might as well leave him, because he won't be taken half-heartedly. But when you mourn, when you get to the point of sorrow for your sins, when you admit that you have no other option but to cast all your cares on him, and when there is truly no other name that you can call, then cast all your cares on him, for he is waiting in the midst of the storm. Come to me, all of you who are tired and have heavy loads, and I will give you rest. --Matthew 11:28 from The Applause of Heaven by Max Lucado * * * * * * * * * * (Saturday,
October 25)
TENNIS LESSONS FOR MY SON
Copyright 2003 W. Bruce
Cameron
I am something of a natural-born tennis player--meaning, I play like someone who has never had lessons. I'm also blessed with a superb athletic ability, so that even though I go a decade without setting foot on a tennis court, when I pick up a racket I'm instantly as good as when I played for the very first time. My 15-year-old son decided this summer that he wanted to take up the sport, and asked me if I would give him some lessons. "Sure," I responded with enthusiasm, "how about next month sometime?" Kids nowadays are into "instant gratification," so he seemed to feel waiting an entire month was too much to ask. He even accused me of "doing nothing" at that moment, even though he could clearly see I was involved in getting comfortable on the hammock. A nurturing and involved parent, I decided to forego my nap and drive my son down to the neighborhood courts for a lesson or two, because that's just the kind of dad I am and also because my daughter baked some cookies for us to take along. Once we had stationed ourselves on either side of the net and began tapping the ball back and forth, it was immediately clear that my son had been practicing. In fact, one of his shots came directly at me with such speed it was all I could do to dodge out of the way. "Hey," I shouted, "you made me drop my cookie!" "Why didn't you hit it back instead of ducking?" he taunted. (Remember, he doesn't understand how to play the game.) "Let's just do a set," I suggested. Sometimes, the big dog has to remind the little dog who runs the herd. I cranked up and fired a bullet, my serve sizzling through the air so fast it fried the fuzz right off the ball. "Net," he called for some reason. I took pity on him and tapped the next one more softly. "Out," he shouted. "Look, do you want to play or not?" I demanded. Apparently my next serve was to his liking, as he returned it to my forehand--initiating the following exchange between my brain and my body. Memo
To: Feet
From: Brain
Subject: Get Moving!
Dear Feet, we are here and the ball is over there. Move! Reply Memo
To: Brain
From: Feet
Dear Brain, in receipt of your memo, referenced above. Please explain "ball" and why we should care about same. Reply Reply Memo
To: Feet
From: Brain
Would you please just get going? We can debate this later! I put everything I had into my lunge, moving faster than Tiger Woods at NASCAR. Unfortunately the tennis ball was in some way flawed, bouncing out of my reach in a most defective fashion. "My point!" my son called gaily. I accepted this gratuitous comment with typical good sportsmanship. "You're not supposed to swear," he advised me. My son is at the age where he improves 80% with every stroke, whereas I am at the age where there was an 80% chance I would HAVE a stroke. After ten minutes of chasing back and forth trying to return his woefully misdirected shots, I tossed the ball up and walloped it, sending it soaring over the fence and into the weeds. "Go get it," I wheezed. "Why?" "Those are the rules," I told him. "But you did that on purpose!" "Hey, have you read the rule book? No. Have I? Yes. Now go get the ball." "Aren't you going to play any more?" "No, I'm going to lie down. I'm having internal bleeding. Are there any more cookies?" Grumbling, he went off to search for the ball. I gazed up at the sky and made a mental note to complain to the homeowner's association about the presence of a tennis court in our neighborhood. I mean, what kind of thing is that to have in a place where there are children around? The Cameron Column, A Free Internet Newsletter Copyright W. Bruce Cameron 2003 http://www.wbrucecameron.com/
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* * * * * * * * * * (Friday,
October 24) THE HUG It was one
of those mornings. Things are tense. Our infant son had been up all night. My wife's eyes (along with the rest of her) were weary. My oldest son, the five-year-old, wasn't feeling his best either. He was slow
getting ready for school It was just
one of those mornings. As I drove him to school, he was quiet. When parents
are tense and tired, the children feel it. After being fussed at, he was sullen. It was one of
those mornings. I walked him
to his classroom as usual. I usually give
my son a hug before I leave him in class. He came
forward with his arms outstretched. I bowed down, Normally, I would only hug him for two or three seconds but on this morning, I held him tight as the seconds ticked by like dashed lines on the highway. All of a sudden, I felt him get heavier. Still clinging to my son, I opened my eyes. I understood why he had gotten heavier. His feet were off the ground. He had curled his legs up and his heels were only inches away from his backside. He clung. I clung. Sometimes in life no words are needed. As he folded his legs up and trusted his father to carry all of his weight, he didn't get heavier to my spirit. I actually felt lighter. It was a ritual repeated countless times through countless years from countless parents to countless children. The touch and embrace between a parent and a child make them both feel more secure. It was one of
those mornings.
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PASS IT ON! Yeah, you can
send this Funny to anybody you want. And, if you're REAL nice, you'll
tell them you got it from
* * * * * * * * * * * (Thursday, October 23) I was hungry
and you formed a humanities club --author unknown from Fresh
Elastic for Stretched Out Moms by Barbara Johnson. * * * * * * * * * * (Wednesday,
October 22) --Helen Keller * * * * * * * * * * * (Monday,
October 20) BETWEEN A FATHER AND A SON A letter written during a war by a father to his soldier son: Dear Son,
* * * * * * * * * * (Sunday,
October 12) Sometimes our expectations pave the way for stress and frustration. We want well-behaved lives, lives that don't talk back, slough off, or mess up. We want our lives to emulate Emily Post. No wonder we're upset when our lives are more accurately characterized by Lucy Ricardo. We want our years on this earth to be a piece of cake, a bed of roses, a walk in the park. What we forget is that cakes have calories and roses have thorns. And as for a walk in the park, the last time I took a walk in the park I stepped in dog poopl If we want to simplify our lives, abandoning unrealistic, pie-in-the-sky expectations is a good place to start. We've got to learn to laugh and roll with the punches, cherishing life despite its imperfections. from Just
Hand Over the Chocolate and No One Will Get Hurt * * * * * * * * * * (Wednesday,
October 8) With each day there often remains a residue of things left undone, unsaid, unachieved, or unconquered. Each day has its own measure of failure, its own degree of trouble, and its own lingering doubts. As you conduct a full review of your day--the bad as well as the good--it may be helpful to recall these words by John Oxendale:
You may not have been as successful today as you would have liked, but every day you are faithful to the Lord is a success for Him. Remember the things He has promised and that regardless of your performance today, as you give your whole heart to Him, He makes up the difference. from Quiet Moments with God * * * * * * * * * * * (Monday, October 6) Youth is not
a time of life, it is a state of mind. from Love Adds A Little Chocolate by Medard Laz * * * * * * * * * * (Thursday, October 2) I'm Vulnerable... And I want to take advantage of that vulnerability. I want to keep on being the new me. Maybe I'll slide back with time. Perhaps my footprints in the sands of time won't be so crisp, so nicely edged, but instead will show that crumbling pattern of the one who slips back with each step almost as far as he strides. Maybe I'll go back to shaking hands instead of hugging. Maybe I'll fall back to choking off the tears instead of letting them flow. Maybe I'll want to be "strong" again instead of open. I don't want to back slide. I don't want to fall off instead of weep out, but I know it can happen. When my chemotherapy is over, and the cards and the letters stop, and I have passed my five year test and can eat colored food again, what happens if I become the old, "strong" me again? "Strong" isn't bad. It isn't everything either. I like the new me, who weeps to see the little neighbor girl ride her bright, pink bike, just because a healthy child in motion is such a beautiful sight. I like the me who surprises men in gray suits with a big hug. It's a wonderful sight, two men in pinstripes, trying to figure out what to do with their briefcases while they attempt a hug--good laughter therapy if nothing else! I like the me who talks to trees to let them know how well they are doing and how good they are looking. I like the me who sings prayers, and laughs at silliness, and hopes all the time, without even knowing it, because it's so much a part of me. I like the me who wakes up in the morning feeling joyful that there is so much to do instead of burdened because there is so much to do. I like the me who welcomes pain as a friend because it reminds me that I am alive. I like the me who isn't bothered by the chaos of my desk but covers it over with the sure knowledge of what is important and what is not. I like the me who trusts the Spirit more than the calendar and date books and lists and planners. I've always had the cool, silent, determined courage of strength. Now I have the warm, bubbling, winging courage of weakness as well. So I pray: "Let me grow, in both health and illness, into the new me. Let me be worthy of the new me. Let me be thankful for the old me--for the old me was a gift, too--but keep me vulnerable. Let every part of me move toward the whole me." by
John Robert McFarland * * * * * * * * * * *
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