Because He Had First Loved Her

Soren Kierkegaard, the Danish theologian, told a story about a certain kingdon wherein there was a handsome prince, searching for a woman worthy enough to be his wife and to become queen of the land.  One day while running an errand for his father he passed through a poor village.  As he glanced out the wondow of his carriage his eyes fell on a beautiful peasant maiden.  During ensuing days, he often passed by the young lady and soon fell in love with her by sight.  But he had a problem.  How could he seek her hand?

He could command her to marry him, but the prince wanted someone who would marry him out of love, not coercion.  He could show up at her door in his splendid uniform in a gold carriage drawn by six horses, attendants in tow, and bearing a chest of jewels and gold coins.  But then how would he know if she really loved him or if she was just overawed and overwhelmed with his splendor?  Finally he came up with another solution.

He stripped off his royal robes, put on common dress, moved into the village, and got to know her without revealing his identity.  As he lived among the people, the prince and the maiden became friends, shared each other's interests, and talked about their concerns.  By and by, the young lady grew to love him for who he was and because he had first loved her.

- Henry Law, The Gospel in Exodus (First Banner of Truth Trust, 1967)

Appreciate... No Delays

An old gentleman used to stop by an antique shop in New Hampshire to sell furniture.  One day after he left, the antique dealer's wife said she wished she had told him how much she enjoyed his visits.  The husband said, "Next time let's tell him so."

The following summer a young woman came in and introduced herself as the daughter of the old gentleman.  Her father, she said, had died.  Then the wife told her about the conversation she and her husband had after the father's last visit.  The young woman's eyes filled with tears.  "Oh, how much good that would have done for my father," she cried.  "He was a man who needed to be reassured that he was liked."

"Since that day," the shopkeeper said later, "whenever I think something particularly nice about a person, I tell him.  I might never get another chance."

- Sounds, quoted in The Speaker's Quote Book (Christian Literature Crusade, 1997)

It Tells Us Of What We Need To Know

In Focus on the Family, Rolf Zettersten wrote, "A good friend in a North Carolina bought a new car with a voice-warning system..... At first Edwin was amused to hear the soft female voice gently remind him that his seat belt wasn't fastened.....  He affectionately called this voice the 'little woman.'

"He soon discovered his little woman was programmed to warn him about his gasoline.  'Your fuel level is low,' she said one time in her sweet voice.  Edwin nodded his head and thanked her.  He figured he still had enough gas to go another fifty miles, so he kept on driving.  But a few minutes later, her voice interrupted again with the same warning.  And so it went over and over.  Although he knew it was the same recording, Edwin thought her voice sounded harsher each time.

"Finally, he stopped his car and crawled under the dashboard.  After a quick search, he found the appropriate wires and gave them a good yank.  So much for the little woman.

"He was still smiling to himself a few miles later when his car began sputtering and coughing.  He ran out of gas!  Somewhere inside the dashboard, Edwin was sure he could hear the little woman laughing."

People like Edwin learn before long that the little voice inside, although ignored or even disconnected, often tells them exactly what they need to know.

- William J. Gestal, Jr. in "Conscience," Leadership Journal (Winter, 1991)

Not A Minute To Lose

Brian Shipwash and his girlfriend, Shandra Miller, were riding a motorcycle up North Carolina’s Pilot Mountain. At a curve in the road, Shipwash lost control and crashed into the side of an oncoming pickup truck. The couple went flying, and the motorcycle landed on top of Shipwash.

Ten other Harley-Davidson riders rushed to help and found the handlebars of the motorcycle stuck six inches into Shipwash’s abdomen. When they pulled the handlebars from his stomach, Shipwash pulled a small box from his pocket. It was broken and bloody, but inside was a ring.

Later Shipwash told his girlfriend the reason they were going to Pilot Mountain was so he could propose. In front of reporters, he said, “I know this is not the best time in the world, but will you marry me?”

“I was crying at the time because of the wreck,” Miller said. “But when I saw [the ring], I just startedtj crying even more.”

Though he suffered a broken hand and leg, Shipwash did not damage any major organs. No one else was injured in the accident. And Shandra Miller said yes.

 — Associated Press, “Crashed Biker 
Proposes at Accident Scene,” 
Chicago Sun-Times (December 31, 2003)

Angry Letter Almost Got Sent... With Regret

I remember a young fellow who one time in a fit of temper wrote a mean letter to his father.  As he and I worked in the same office, I advised him not to send it, because he had written it when he was in an angry mood.  However, he sealed it and asked me to mail it for him.  Instead, I simply dropped it into my pocket until the next day.

The following morning he arrived looking very worried.  "George," he said, "I wish that I had never written that letter to the old gentleman.  It will break his heart.  My, I'd give fifty dollars to get it back!"  

Removing it from my pocket and handing it to him, I told him what I had done.  The young fellow was so overjoyed he actually wanted to pay me the fifty dollars for not mailing his spiteful letter.

- George W. Martin, quoted by Roy B. Zuck in The Speaker's Quote Book (Christian Literature Crusade, 1997)

You Contribute To Your Situation

A man named Joe had just about had it with his wife of three years.  He no longer thought of her as attractive or interesting; he considered her to be a poor housekeeper who was overweight, someone he no longer wanted to live with. Joe was so upset that he finally decided on divorce.  But before serving her the papers, he consulted with a psychologist to find out how to make life as difficult as possible for his wife.

The psychologist, after listening to Joe's story, gave this advice, "Well, Joe, I think I've got the perfect solution for you.  Here's what I want you to do.  Starting tonight when you get home, I want you to start treating your wife as if she were a goddess.  That's right, a goddess.  I want you to change your attitude toward her 180 degrees.  Start doing everything you can to please her.  Listen intently to her when she talks about her problems, help around the house, take her out to dinner on weekends. I want you to literally pretend that she's a goddess.  Then, after two months of this wonderful behavior, just pack your bags and leave her.  That should get to her!"

Joe thought it was a tremendous idea.  That night he started treating his wife as if she were a goddess.  He couldn't wait to do things for her.  He brought her breakfast in bed and had flowers delivered to her for no apparent reasons. Within three weeks the two of them had gone on two romantic weekend vacations.  They read books to each other at night, and Joe listened to her as never before.  It was incredible what Joe was doing for his wife.  He kept it up for two full months.  After the allotted time, the psychologist gave Joe a call at work.

"Joe," he asked, "how's it going?  Did you file for divorce?  Are you a happy bachelor once again?"

"Divorce?" asked Joe in dismay.  "Are you kidding?  I'm married to a goddess.  I've never been happier in my life!"

- Ted W. Engstrom, The Fine Art of Friendship (Thomas Nelson, 1985)

Whatever's the Circumstance, You Choose Your Attitude

I had a severe cervical spinal injury. The pain was so excruciating that the hospital staff couldn’t do an MRI until I was significantly sedated. The MRI showed significant damage at three major points in the cervical area. Because of the swelling of injured nerve bundles, the only way I could relieve the pain was to use a strong, prescribed narcotic and to lie on bags of ice. Sleep, what little there was, came only by sitting in a reclining chair.

Approximately forty-eight hours from the onset of the injury, doctors estimated that I had lost about 80 percent of the strength in my left arm. Three fingers on my left hand totally lost feeling. The slightest movements would send pain waves hurtling down my left side and shoulder. I had to step away completely from my work (which I love) and wear a neck brace twenty-four hours a day for five weeks.

About halfway through that experience, I was sitting on the screened-in porch behind our home. The day was cold and blustery, but I needed a change of scenery. Suddenly a bird landed on the railing and began to sing. On that cold, rainy day, I couldn’t believe any creature had a reason to sing. I wanted to shoot that bird! But he continued to warble, and I had no choice but to listen.

The next day I was on the porch again, but this time it was bright, sunny, and warm. I was tempted to feel sorry for myself when suddenly the bird (at least it looked like the same one) returned. And he was singing again! Where was that shotgun?

Then it hit me: the bird sang in the cold rain as well as the sunny warmth. His song was not altered by outward circumstances, but it was held constant by an internal condition. It was as though God quietly said to me, “You’ve got the same choice, Bob. You will either let external circumstances mold your attitude, or your attitude will rise above the external circumstances. You choose!”

 — Bob Reccord, Forged by Fire 
(Broadman & Holman, 2000)

Better Check Oneself First

A man was perplexed by his wife's refusal to admit her hearing problem.  Speaking with his doctor one day, he exclaimed, "How can I get my wife to admit that she is hard of hearing?"

"I'll tell you what you need to do," his doctor replied.  "When you arrive home this evening, peek your head through the door and ask, 'Honey, what's for dinner tonight?'  If she doesn't answer, go into the living room and say, 'Honey, what's for dinner?'  If she still does not answer, walk into the kitchen and ask, 'Honey, what's for dinner?'  If she still does not hear you, then walk right up behind her and speak directly in her ear: 'Honey, what's for dinner?'  Then you will be able to convince her of her need for a hearing exam."

"Great!" the man responded.  "I think it will work!"

That evening the man arrived home from work. Just as he had been instructed, he opened the front door and called out: "Honey, what's for dinner tonight?"  He listened carefully, but there was no reply.  He walked into the living room and repeated, "Honey, what's for dinner?" He still received no answer.  He then walked into the kitchen and asked, "Honey, what's for dinner?"  Still there was no answer.  The man walked right up behind his wife and spoke directly into her ear: "Honey, what's for dinner?"

At this the wife turned around and resolutely replied: "For the fourth time, I said we are having spaghetti!"

- Timothy J. Helm, Parables, Etc. (Saratoga Press, November 1994)

People Need People

People need people.  Laurie was about three when she requested my aid in getting undressed.  I was downstairs and she was upstairs at that time.  "You know how to undress yourself," I reminded her.

"Yes," she explained, "but sometimes people need people anyway, even if they know how to do things for themselves."

As I slowly lowered the newspaper, a strong feeling came over me, a mixture of delight, anger, and pride; delight in the realization that what I had just heard had crystallized many stray thoughts on interpersonal behavior; anger because Laurie stated so effortlessly what I had been struggling with for months; and pride because, after all, she is my daughter.

- William C. Schutz, quoted by Roy B. Zuck in The Speaker's Quote Book (Christian Literature Crusade, 1997)

Faithful At All Cost

Living in a remote forest at the northern edge of Canada, Trapper John made his closest friendship with his faithful German shepherd, Duke.  Every few days he and Duke would take the overnight trek to check the traps.  Selling animal pelts at the trading post in the distant town sustained their simple life.  The two had shared each other's company for years.  The dog loved the man, often protecting him from wild animals during their all-night treks to check the traps.  Duke even seemed to listen attentively to Trapper John share his feelings as he sat by the campfire.

On one trip into town, Trapper John met a young woman who was new in town and worked at the trading post.  She immediately caught his attention and they began seeing each other as he made more frequent trips into town.  That spring they got married.

Their first born was born the following winter--but tragedy accompanied that ocassion.  Trapper John's wife died as she gave birth to their beautiful daughter.  Broken-hearted, he had no choice but to take his baby girl into town to live with a kind family willing to take care of her until she was old enough to return to the cabin.

She was almost a year old when Trapper John brought her back to his cabin in the woods.  Now faced with the challenge of raising a child while sustaining their existence with trapping, he would leave Duke with his sleeping baby during the night while he check on his traps.  He knew that his trusted dog would protect his baby if she was in any danger.

But on one such trip, tragedy struck again.  Returning home early in the morning after checking his traps, John came to the top of the hill overlooking his cabin.  His heart pounded wildly when he noticed the front door do the cabin pushed open.  Throwing down his pelts, he raced to the open door to check on his daughter.

As he entered the cabin, he saw the baby's little bed covered with blood.  He then caught sight of Duke cowering in the corner, covered with blood.  Enraged, John cocked his rifle and pointed it directly at Duke.

"You killed my baby!  You killed my baby!" he shouted at the dog.  In the midst of John's anguished roar, he heard a baby's cry from under the bloodied blanket.  John, his finger on the trigger and his dog in the gunsight, turned his head toward that cry--and with a sweep of his hand, uncovered his unharmed baby.  It was only then that he saw the dead bobcat behind his daughter's bed.  In a heartbreaking moment of understanding, he realized that he almost killed the one who had saved his baby's life.

- Dan Webster, quoted by Wayne Rice in Still More Hot Illustrations for Youth Talks (Christian Literature Cruaade, 1999)

Honesty Exemplified, Honesty Passed On

Robert Brandt is a doctor in Pennsylvania who took his sons camping one night and by the campfire told them this story:  About a hundred years ago there was a man who worked in a stone quarry who was injured by a sliding boulder.  His foot was crushed.  He was dirt poor, and he feared losing his job for he had children in diapers and a pregnant wife.  Because he couldn't afford a horse, he had to walk everywhere; so his injured foot was a constant, throbbing trial.

A few days later, on payday, he limped to the general store for groceries, then hobbled home.  When he pulled his receipt from his pocket, he discovered that he had been given too much change.  What should he do?  As his worried wife watched from the kitchen doorway, he began limping every searing step back to the store to return the change.

After Dr. Brandt had told that story to his children, he asked them, "What do you think, guys?  Did he do the right thing?  Was that trip necessary?"

The boys quickly offered several alternatives, but after a spirited discussion they concluded that he had done the right thing.  Then the boys slid down into their sleeping bags as the fire died down.  Only then did Dr. Brandt tell them the rest of the story.

"The young father who worked in the stone quarry never became rich, but he lived a long, happy and honorable life.  Before he died, he had passed his values in honesty to his children and his grandchildren.  Even his great-grandchildren still hear about his honesty."

"Where did you hear that stone-man story anyway, Dad?" asked Roger.

"When I was just a boy about your age, I heard it from a kind old man sitting in a rocking chair with a cane between his knees.  I sat spellbound as he rocked, slowly spinning his cane as he told me that story--about himself.  He was my grandfather, and your great-grandfather!"

- Robert I. Brandt, "A Heritage of Honesty," Decision Magazine (July-August 1991)

Priceless Act of Kindness

Jeff Leeland had just accepted a teaching position at Kamiakin Junior High in Seattle, Washington. The family had endured months of Dad’s driving to and from work before the family could relocate from their previous home.

As winter struggled toward spring in 1992, Jeff and his wife, Kristi, heard the devastating news: “Your baby boy has cancer. Michael needs a bone marrow transplant.” The good news was that Michael’s six-year-old sister, Amy, was a perfect match for the transplant. But Jeff’s insurance company wouldn’t pay for it. A tiny clause in the contract stated that Jeff had to be on the job for at least a year before insurance would cover a transplant. He had only been teaching in the new job for six months.

By March, Michael’s need for a transplant became urgent. If he couldn’t receive the new marrow soon, he would die. The Leelands needed to raise $200,000 by May.

Fellow teacher Joe Kennedy told his class about Leeland’s situation. Dameon, a seventh-grade boy who walked with a limp and struggled in special education classes, heard about Mr. Leeland’s son, Michael, and made a visit to Jeff’s house. “Mr. Leeland, if your baby is in trouble, I want to help,” he said. The kid others teased then stuffed twelve five-dollar bills into the hand of a teacher who had made a difference in his life. It was the boy’s life savings.

Word got out about Dameon’s gift. Some kids organized a walk-a-thon. Others called a local newspaper with the story. Some held a car wash.

The Kamiakin kids’ wave of compassion poured out across Seattle. On Friday, May 22, a man walked into the bank with a check for $10,000. One week after Dameon’s gift, Michael’s fund grew to $16,000. By late May, area TV stations picked up the story. By May 29, Michael’s fund grew to $62,000. The Leelands were boosted with hope when the hospital moved Michael’s transplant back by two weeks. By June 5, the fund had grown to $143,000; by June 8, $160,000; by June 9, $185,000. Only four weeks after Dameon’s gift of $60, the Michael Leeland Fund contained more than $220,000.

Michael got the marrow transplant and lived. Dameon accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior, partially due to his interaction with Michael’s family. Soon after that, Dameon died from complications following an infection in one of his legs.

Dameon, the unlikely hero, gave all his saving to save the life of another. But in all of these, he received life everlasting.

 — Based on a phone interview and 
Jeff Leeland’s account in One Small Sparrow 
(Multnomah, 2000)

An Invitation of Unconditional Acceptance

Longing to leave her poor Brazilian neighborhood, Christina wanted to see the world.  Discontent with home having only a pallet on the floor, a washbasin, and a wood-burning stove, she dreamed of a better life in the city.  One morning she slipped away, breaking her mother's heart.

Knowing what life on the streets would be like for her young, attractive daughter, Maria hurriedly packed to go find her.  On her way to the bus stop she entered a drugstore to get one last thing.  Pictures.  She sat in the photograph booth, closed the curtain, and spent all she could on pictures of herself.  With her purse full of black-and-white photos, she boarded the next bus to Rio de Janeiro.

Maria knew Christina had no way of earning money.  She also knew that her daughter was too stubborn to give up.  When pride meets hunger, a human will do things that were before unthinkable. Knowing this, Maria began her search.  Bars, hotels, nightclubs, any place with the reputation for street walkers or prostitutes.  She went to them all.  And at each place she left her picture--taped on a bathroom mirror, tacked to a hotel bulletin board, fastened to a corner phone booth,  and on the back of each photo she wrote a note.  It wasn't too long before both the money and the pictures ran out, and Maria had to go home.

The weary mother wept as the bus began its long journey back to her small village.  It was a few weeks later that young Christina descended the hotel stairs.  Her young face was tired.  Her brown eyes no longer danced with youth but spoke of pain and fear.  Her laughter was broken.  Her dream had become a nightmare.  A thousand times over she had longed to trade these countless beds for her secure pallet.  Yet the little village was, in too many ways, too far away.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes noticed a familiar face.  She looked again, and there on the lobby mirror was a small picture of her mother.  Christina's eyes burned and her throat tightened as she walked across the room and removed the small photo.  Written on the back was this compelling invitation.  "Whatever you have done, whatever you have become, it doesn't matter.  Please come home."

She did.

- Max Lucado, No Wonder They Call Him Savior (Multnomah Press, 1986)

My Scar... It's a Thing of Beauty.

The young bride wore a gown with a low-cut front.  As she walked down the aisle, everyone could see, even from a distance, the ugly scar which ran from the base of her throat, disappearing into her gown.

A few people asked, " Why didn't you choose a dress that covered your scar?"

She explained, "A few years ago I had open-heart surgery, and my prognosis was not good.  But God brought me through those times.  So I wear my scar proudly.  It is my monument to God's grace.  It may be something that is perceived as unseemly, but to me, it has become a thing of beauty."

- Esther Chiumbu, quoted in Sermon Illustrations for an Asian Audience (OMF, 2004)

Joy That Was Hard Won

Honesty is always the best policy, especially when you are surrounded by women in a restroom during a break at a Christian women’s conference. One woman, putting on lipstick, said, “Oh, Joni, you always look so together, so happy in your wheelchair. I wish that I had your joy!” Several women around her nodded. “How do you do it?” she asked as she capped her lipstick.

“I don’t do it,” I said. “May I tell you honestly how I woke up this morning?

“This is an average day. After my husband, Ken, leaves for work at 6:00 a.m., I’m alone until I hear the front door open at 7:00 a.m. That’s when a friend arrives to get me up. While she makes coffee, I pray, ‘Lord, my friend will soon give me a bath, get me dressed, sit me up in my chair, brush my hair and teeth, and send me out the door. I don’t have the strength to face this routine one more time. I have no resources. I don’t have a smile to take into the day. But you do. May I have yours? God, I need you desperately.’ ”

“So what happens when your friend comes into the bedroom?” one of them asked.

“I turn my head toward her and give her a smile sent straight from heaven. It’s not mine; it’s God’s.” I point to my paralyzed legs. “Whatever joy you see today was hard won this morning.”

I have learned that the weaker we are, the more we need to lean on God; and the more we lean on God, the stronger we find him to be.

 — Joni Eareckson Tada, “Joy Hard Won,” Decision (March 2000)

Love Your Age, Whatever It Is

Arthur Gordon tells this story: When we were growing up years ago in our sleepy Southern town, most of the adults seemed rather staid and sober.  There was, however, one memorable exception: Miss Lucy, a widow lady who lived with her prim and proper sister, Clara.  But Miss Lucy was full of charm and sparkle and enthusiasm.  

One day Miss Lucy - in her sixties - asserted that she could still stand on her head.  When we looked doubtful, she clamped her skirt between her knees and did so, beaming at us upside down.  "Oh, Lucy," said Clara.  "Do be your age!"

Miss Lucy righted herself.  "What sort of nonsense is that?" she asked.  "How can anyone be anything but their age?  The trick is to love your age.  Love it when you're young and strong and foolish.  Love it when you're old and wise.  Love it in the middle when the challenges come and you can solve some of them, maybe most of them.  If you love your age, you'll never go around wishing you were some other age.  Think about that, Clara,"

- Arthur Gordon, Return to Wonder

True Joy is Hard to Come By

Joseph Grimaldi (1778-1837) is remembered as history's greatest clown.  He was exclusively a theatrical clown, and is considered the "Father of Modern Clowning" because he is the entertainer who elevated the whiteface clown to a starring role.  He played for the King of England among others, and he made the world laugh.  So great was his reputation that a doctor once gave a patient who complained of depression this simple prescription: "You must go to the music hall and see Grimaldi."

The patient bowed and said, "I'm sorry, doctor, but with me that will not work.  You see, I am Grimaldi."

- Erik Brady, "Crown Prince og Baseball's Reign of Pain," USA Today, July 31, 1992.

He was There All Along

A tribe of Native Americans had a unique practice for training young braves. On the night of a boy’s thirteenth birthday, he was blindfolded and taken miles away. When he took off the blindfold, he was in the midst of thick woods. He had to stay there all night by himself.

Every time a twig snapped, he probably visualized a wild animal ready to pounce. Every time an animal howled, he imagined a wolf leaping out of the darkness. Every time the wind blew, he wondered what more sinister sound it masked.

After what seemed like an eternity, the first rays of sunlight lightened the interior of the forest. Looking around, the boy saw flowers, trees, and the outline of the path. Then, to his utter astonishment, he saw the figure of a man standing just a few feet away, armed with a bow and arrow. It was the boy’s father, who had been there all night long.

Likewise, God is always present with us in our trials. His presence is unseen, but it is more real than life itself.

 — Leonard Sweet, 
SoulSalsa (Zondervan, 2000)

There's Something Else in a Name

In 1958, a baby boy was born into the Lane family. Robert, the father, chose to name the boy Winner. How could the young man fail to succeed with a name like Winner Lane?

The Lanes had another son several years later. Robert named this baby Loser. Contrary to all expectations, Loser Lane succeeded. He graduated from college and later became a sergeant with the New York Police Department. No one feels comfortable calling him Loser. His police colleagues refer to him as Lou.

The most noteworthy achievement of Winner Lane, now in his midforties, is the sheer length of his criminal record — nearly three dozen arrests for burglary, domestic violence, trespassing, resisting arrest, and other mayhem.

Go figure.

 — Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner, 
Freakonomics (HarperCollins, 2005)

Treasured Words

“In an earlier grade, I’d taped Mark’s mouth shut for talking too much in class. Now he was one of my students in junior high math,” wrote Sister Helen Mrosia.

One Friday, in a break from work, the teacher asked her students to write the nicest thing they could about each other and hand it in. She compiled the results for each student and, on Monday, gave out the lists.

Several years later, Mark was killed in Vietnam. After the funeral, many classmates gathered with Mark’s parents and Sister Mrosia for lunch. Mark’s father took a wallet out of his pocket. “They found this on Mark when he was killed,” he said. He carefully removed a folded, refolded, and taped paper — on which the teacher had listed the good things Mark’s classmates had said about him.

Other students responded. Charlie smiled sheepishly and said, “I keep my list in my desk drawer.”

Chuck’s wife said, “Chuck put his in our wedding album.”

“I have mine, too, in my diary,” Marilyn said.

Vicky reached into her pocketbook and brought out her frazzled list.

 — John Trent, Choosing to Live the Blessing (WaterBrook, 1997)

No Room for Vengeance

Victoria Ruvolo, forty-five, of Lake Ronkonkoma, New York, was driving to her niece’s voice recital when she passed a car driven by Ryan Cushing, nineteen. Cushing was with five other teens and had just used a stolen credit card to go on a spending spree. One of their purchases was a frozen turkey, which Cushing decided to toss into oncoming traffic. The twenty-pound bird smashed through Ruvolo’s windshield, crushing her face.

Ruvolo survived, though it took ten hours of surgery to repair her face and months of painful rehabilitation. The doctors had to put three titanium plate in her left cheek and one in her right cheek and a wire mesh to hold her left eye in place because her eye socket was badly damaged.

On October 17, 2005, Ruvolo attended Cushing’s sentencing and asked his judge for leniency. Part of her statement read, “Despite all the fear and the pain, I have learned from this horrific experience that I have much to be thankful for. Each day when I wake up, I thank God simply because I’m alive. I sincerely hope you have also learned from this awful experience, Ryan. There is no room for vengeance in my life, and I do not believe a long, hard prison term would do you, me, or society any good.”

As soon as the case was over, Cushing started to approach Ruvolo.  Every officer in the courtroom was ready to jump on him.  But as he walked over to where Ruvolo was sitting, she said in her book, "I saw that all he was doing was crying, crying profusely. He looked at me and said, ‘I never meant this to happen to you, I prayed for you every day. I’m so glad you’re doing well.’ Then this motherly instinct just came over me and all I could do was take him and cuddle him like a child and tell him ‘just do something good with your life, take this experience and do something good with your life.’"

Cushing, who wept and expressed remorse for his action, was sentenced to six months in jail and five years probation of community service and psychiatric help.  He could have gotten a twenty-five-year prison sentence if Ruvolo had not intervened.

 — Leah Ingram, “Compassionate Victim,” beliefnet.com (December 2005) and Victoria Ruvolo, No Room for Vengeance in Justice and Healing (No Vengence Press, 2011)

Something's Got To Give

Many of you may recall the popular song "Cat's in the Cradle" sung by Harry Chapin. The words always bring a tear to my eye because I am a father, and over the years I have had to travel so much. The song unfolds as follows:

My child arrived just the other day; He came to the world in the usual way, But there were planes to catch, and bills to pay, He learned to walk while I was away.

And he was talkin' & before I knew it and as he grew, He'd say, "I'm gonna be like you, Dad. You know I'm gonna be like you." And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, Little Boy Blue and the man in the moon.

"When you comin' home, Dad?" "I don't know when, but we'll get together then; You know we'll have a good time then."

My son turned ten just the other day. He said, "Thanks for the ball, Dad, come on, let's play. Can you teach me to throw?" I said, "No, not today, I got a lot to do."

He said, "That's okay." And he walked away but his smile never dimmed. It said, "I'm gonna be like him, yeah, You know I'm gonna be like him…."

And he came from college just the other day; So much like a man I just had to say,"Son, I'm proud of you, can you sit for a while?" He shook his head and he said with a smile,"What I'd really like, Dad, is to borrow the car keys. See you later, can I have them please?"

I've long since retired, my son's moved away. I called him up just the other day. I said, "I'd like to see you, if you don't mind. "He said, "I'd love to, Dad, if I can find the time. You see, my new job's a hassle, and the kids have the flu, But it's sure nice talkin' to you, Dad, It's been nice talkin' to you."

And as I hung up the phone, It occurred to me, He'd grown up just like me. My boy was just like me.

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, Little Boy Blue and the man in the moon,"When you comin' home, Son?""I don't know when, but we'll get together then, Dad. We're gonna have a good time then."

The melodrama of this song was played out in Chapin's own life almost like a self-fulfilling prophecy. I have been told that his wife, who wrote the words of the song, asked him one day when he was going to slow down the torrid pace of his life and give some time to their children. His answer was, "At the end of this busy summer, I'll take some time to be with them." That summer, ironically and tragically, Harry Chapin was killed in a car accident.

It is not possible to read that postscript of Chapin's death and miss the larger point; that something was known, believed, and even "preached," but never lived. When we chase manmade crowns and sacrifice the treasured relationships for which God has made us, life loses its meaning.

- quoted from Ravi Zacharias, Can Man Live Without God, (Word, Dallas: 1994), pp. 108-109

A Kind Act, A Humble Gift

On Friday nights, volunteers from Bridgetown Ministries, led by Marshall Snider, help the homeless people gathered under the Burnside Bridge in Portland, Oregon. In addition to providing hot meals, shaves, and haircuts, some of the volunteers wash the homeless people’s feet. Tom Krattenmaker, a writer for USA Today, was stunned when he saw that, calling it “one of the most audacious acts of compassion and humility I have ever witnessed.”

This group of society’s outcasts had their bare feet immersed in warm water, scrubbed, dried, powdered, and placed in clean socks. One man reported with a smile, “I can’t find the words to describe how good that felt.”

Krattenmaker later wrote, “Washing someone’s feet is an act best performed while kneeling. Given the washer’s position, and the unpleasant appearance and odor of a homeless person’s feet, it’s hard to imagine an act more humbling.”

The leader of Bridgetown Ministries prepares volunteers for this ministry by saying, “When you go out there tonight, I want you to look for Jesus. You might see him in the eyes of a drunk person, a homeless person.”

In the midst of fundamentalists' numerous condemnations and atheists' attack on monotheistic religion, Krattenmaker concluded, "Perhaps what happens Friday nights under the Burnside Bridge can be a reminder. While the fighting over religion drags on, let's remember that many, many people around the world — some who count themselves among the true believers, some who don't — are living up to the religious ideal. They're helping the needy, feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless, even washing their feet."

 — Tom Krattenmaker, “A Witness to What Faith Can Be,” USA Today (December 18, 2006)

A Father's Greatest Gift

At the funeral of Ronald Reagan, his son Michael described the greatest gift a child can receive:

I was so proud . . . to be Ronald Reagan’s son. What a great honor. He gave me a lot of gifts as a child — a horse, a car, a lot of things. But there’s a gift he gave me that I think is wonderful for every father to give every son. . . .

Last Saturday, . . . when he closed his eyes, that’s when I realized the gift that he gave to me, the gift that he was going to be with his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He had, back in 1988 on a flight from Washington, D.C., to Point Mugu, told me about his love of God, his love of Christ as his Savior. I didn’t know then what it all meant. But I certainly, certainly know now.

I can’t think of a better gift for a father to give a son. And I hope to honor my father by giving my son, Cameron, and my daughter, Ashley, that very same gift he gave to me. I know where my father is this very moment; that he is in heaven. I can only promise my father this: “Dad, when I die, I will go to heaven, too. And you and I and my sister, Maureen, who went before us, will dance with the heavenly host of angels before the presence of God. We will do it melanoma- and Alzheimer’s-free.”

 — Associated Press, “Reagan’s Children’s Eulogy Remarks,” USA Today (June 12, 2004)

The Problem with Pre-mature Judgment

A grocery store cashier wrote to advice columnist Ann Landers to complain that she had seen people buy birthday cakes and bags of shrimp with their food stamps. people on welfare who treated themselves to such nonnecessities were “lazy and wasteful,” the writer said.

A few weeks later, Landers’ column was devoted entirely to responses to that letter.
One woman wrote, “I didn’t buy a cake, but I did buy a big bag of shrimp with food stamps. So what? My husband had been working at a plant for fifteen years when it shut down. The shrimp casserole I made was for our wedding anniversary dinner and lasted three days. Perhaps the grocery clerk who criticized that woman would have a different view of life after walking a mile in my shoes.”

Another woman wrote, “I’m the woman who bought the $17 cake and paid for it with food stamps. I thought the checkout woman in the store would burn a hole through me with her eyes. What she didn’t know is the cake was for my little girl’s birthday. It will be her last. She has bone cancer and will probably be gone within six to eight months.”

You never know what other people are dealing with.

 — Terrie Williams, 
The Personal Touch (Warner, 1994)

In View of Death

A man opens a newspaper and discovers it is dated six months in advance of the time he lives. Reading through the newspaper, he discovers stories about events that have not yet taken place. He turns to the sports page and sees scores of games not yet played. He turns to the financial page and discovers the rise or fall of different stocks and bonds.

He realizes this information can make him a wealthy man. A few large bets on an underdog team can make him wealthy. Investments in stocks that are now low but will go high can fatten his portfolio. He is delighted.

He turns the page and comes to the obituary column and sees his picture and story. Everything changes. The knowledge of his death changes his view about his wealth.

 — Haddon Robinson, “Life and Death Advice,” Preaching Today Audio, no. 200

Shortcuts Don't Mix with Love

While a college student, Heidi Neumark took a year off to serve in a volunteer program sponsored by Rural Mission. She went to Johns Island off the Carolina coast, where she listened to the stories of the sons and daughters of plantation slaves. This is what she learned:

The most important lesson I learned on Johns Island was from Miss Ellie, who lived miles down a small dirt road in a one-room, wooden home. We’d sit in old rocking chairs on the front porch, drinking tall glasses of sweet tea, while she’d tell me stories. I never could find out Miss Ellie’s precise age, but it was somewhere between ninety and one hundred. Maybe she didn’t know herself. She still chopped her own firewood, stacked in neat little piles behind the house.

Miss Ellie had a friend named Netta, whom she’d known since they were small girls. To get to Netta’s house, Miss Ellie had to walk for miles through fields of tall grass. This was the sweet grass that Sea Island women make famous baskets out of, but it was also home to numerous poisonous snakes.

Actually, Netta’s home was not that far from Miss Ellie’s place, but there was a stream that cut across the fields. You had to walk quite a distance to get to the place where it narrowed enough to pass. Poor Miss Ellie, I thought, old and arthritic, having to walk all that way, pushing through the thick summer heat, not to mention avoiding the snakes.

I hit upon the perfect plan. I arranged with some men to help build a simple plank bridge across the stream near Miss Ellie’s house. I scouted out the ideal place — not too wide, but too deep to cross. Our bridge was built in a day. I was so excited that I could hardly wait to see Miss Ellie’s reaction. I went to her house and practically dragged her off with me. “Look!” I shouted, “a shortcut for you to visit Netta!”

Miss Ellie did not look grateful. Instead, she shook her head and looked at me with pity. “Child, I don’t need a shortcut,” she said. Then she told about all the friends she kept up with on her way to visit Netta: Mr. Jenkins, with whom she always swapped gossip; Miss Hunter, who so looked forward to the quilt scraps she’d bring by; the raisin wine she’d taste at one place in exchange for her biscuits; and the chance to look in on the “old folks” who were sick.

“Child, you can’t take shortcuts if you want friends in this world,” she told me. “Shortcuts don’t mix with love.”

 — Heidi Neumark, 
Breathing Space (Beacon, 2003)