A Holiday Wish
Time of New Beginnings
http://ping.fm/zQSap
Remember the laughter,
the joy,
the hard work,
and the tears.
And as you reflect on the past year,
also think of the new one to come.
Because most importantly,
this is a time of new beginnings
and the celebration of life.”
Friday, December 31, 2010
The Way to a Happy New Year
http://ping.fm/78uX6
To leave the old with a burst of song;
To recall the right and forgive the wrong;
To forget the things that bind you fast;
To the vain regrets of the year that's past;
To have the strength to let go your hold
Of the not worth while of the days grown old;
To dare go forth with a purpose true,
To the unknown task of the year that's new;
To help your brother along the road,
To assist with his work and lift his load;
To add your gift to the world's good cheer,
Is to have and to give a Happy New Year.
~ Author Unknown
http://ping.fm/78uX6
To leave the old with a burst of song;
To recall the right and forgive the wrong;
To forget the things that bind you fast;
To the vain regrets of the year that's past;
To have the strength to let go your hold
Of the not worth while of the days grown old;
To dare go forth with a purpose true,
To the unknown task of the year that's new;
To help your brother along the road,
To assist with his work and lift his load;
To add your gift to the world's good cheer,
Is to have and to give a Happy New Year.
~ Author Unknown
Thursday, December 30, 2010
A Recipe For A Happy New Year
http://ping.fm/5ho2c
Take twelve whole months.
Clean them thoroughly of all bitterness, hate, and jealousy.
Make them just as fresh and clean as possible.
Now cut each month into twenty-eight, thirty or thirty-one different parts, but don't make the whole batch at once.
Prepare it one day at a time out of these ingredients.
Mix well into each day one part of faith, one part of patience, one part of courage, and one part of work.
Add to each day one part of hope, faithfulness, generosity, and meditation, and one good deed.
Season the whole with a dash of good spirits, a sprinkle of fun, a pinch of play, and a cupful of good humor.
Pour all of this into a vessel of love. Cook thoroughly over radiant joy, garnish with a smile, and serve with quietness, unselfishness, and cheerfulness.
You're bound to have a Happy New Year.
http://ping.fm/5ho2c
Take twelve whole months.
Clean them thoroughly of all bitterness, hate, and jealousy.
Make them just as fresh and clean as possible.
Now cut each month into twenty-eight, thirty or thirty-one different parts, but don't make the whole batch at once.
Prepare it one day at a time out of these ingredients.
Mix well into each day one part of faith, one part of patience, one part of courage, and one part of work.
Add to each day one part of hope, faithfulness, generosity, and meditation, and one good deed.
Season the whole with a dash of good spirits, a sprinkle of fun, a pinch of play, and a cupful of good humor.
Pour all of this into a vessel of love. Cook thoroughly over radiant joy, garnish with a smile, and serve with quietness, unselfishness, and cheerfulness.
You're bound to have a Happy New Year.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Advice for All on New Year’s Day ~ Ann Landers
http://ping.fm/3CQeo
Let this coming year be better than all the others. Vow to do some of the things you’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t find the time.
*Call up a forgotten friend. Drop an old grudge, and replace it with some pleasant memories.
*Share a funny story with someone whose spirits are dragging. A good laugh can be very good medicine.
*Vow not to make a promise you don’t think you can keep.
*Pay a debt.
*Give a soft answer.
*Free yourself of envy and malice.
*Encourage some youth to do his or her best. Share your experience, and offer support. Young people need role models.
*Make a genuine effort to stay in closer touch with family and good friends.
*Resolve to stop magnifying small problems and shooting from the lip. Words that you have to eat can be hard to digest.
*Find the time to be kind and thoughtful. All of us have the same allotment: 24 hours a day. Give a compliment. It might give someone a badly needed lift.
*Think things through. Forgive an injustice. Listen more. Be kind.
*Apologize when you realize you are wrong. An apology never diminishes a person. It elevates him.
*Don’t blow your own horn. If you’ve done something praiseworthy, someone win notice eventually.
*Try to understand a point of view that is different from your own. Few things are 100 percent one way or another.
*Examine the demands you make on others.
*Lighten up. When you feel like blowing your top, ask yourself, "Will it matter a week from today?"
*Laugh the loudest when the joke is on you.
*The sure way to have a friend is to be one. We are all connected by our humanity, and we need each other.
*Avoid malcontents and pessimists. They drag you down and contribute nothing.
*Don’t discourage a beginner from trying something risky. Nothing ventured means nothing gained. Be optimistic. The can-do spirit is the fuel that makes things go.
*Go to war against animosity and complacency.
*Express your gratitude. Give credit when it’s due—and even when it isn’t. It will make you look good.
*Read something uplifting. Deep-six the trash. You wouldn’t eat garbage—why put it in your head?
*Don’t abandon your old-fashioned principles. They never go out of style.
*When courage is needed, ask yourself, "If not me, who? If not now, when?"
*Take better care of yourself. Remember, you’re all you’ve got. Pass up that second helping. You really don’t need it. Vow to eat more sensibly. You’ll feel better and look better, too.
*Don’t put up with secondhand smoke. Nobody has the right to pollute your air or give you cancer. If someone says, "This is a free country," remind him or her that the country may be free, but no person is free if he has a habit he can’t control.
*Return those books you borrowed. Reschedule that missed dental appointment. Clean out your closet. Take those photos out of the drawer and put them in an album. If you see litter on the sidewalk, pick it up instead of walking over it.
*Give yourself a reality check. Phoniness is transparent, and it is tiresome. Take pleasure in the beauty and the wonders of nature. A flower is God’s miracle.
*Walk tall, and smile more. You’ll look 10 years younger.
*Don’t be afraid to say, "I love you." Say it again. They are the sweetest words in the world.
*If you have love in your life, consider yourself blessed, and vow to make this the best year ever.
http://ping.fm/3CQeo
Let this coming year be better than all the others. Vow to do some of the things you’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t find the time.
*Call up a forgotten friend. Drop an old grudge, and replace it with some pleasant memories.
*Share a funny story with someone whose spirits are dragging. A good laugh can be very good medicine.
*Vow not to make a promise you don’t think you can keep.
*Pay a debt.
*Give a soft answer.
*Free yourself of envy and malice.
*Encourage some youth to do his or her best. Share your experience, and offer support. Young people need role models.
*Make a genuine effort to stay in closer touch with family and good friends.
*Resolve to stop magnifying small problems and shooting from the lip. Words that you have to eat can be hard to digest.
*Find the time to be kind and thoughtful. All of us have the same allotment: 24 hours a day. Give a compliment. It might give someone a badly needed lift.
*Think things through. Forgive an injustice. Listen more. Be kind.
*Apologize when you realize you are wrong. An apology never diminishes a person. It elevates him.
*Don’t blow your own horn. If you’ve done something praiseworthy, someone win notice eventually.
*Try to understand a point of view that is different from your own. Few things are 100 percent one way or another.
*Examine the demands you make on others.
*Lighten up. When you feel like blowing your top, ask yourself, "Will it matter a week from today?"
*Laugh the loudest when the joke is on you.
*The sure way to have a friend is to be one. We are all connected by our humanity, and we need each other.
*Avoid malcontents and pessimists. They drag you down and contribute nothing.
*Don’t discourage a beginner from trying something risky. Nothing ventured means nothing gained. Be optimistic. The can-do spirit is the fuel that makes things go.
*Go to war against animosity and complacency.
*Express your gratitude. Give credit when it’s due—and even when it isn’t. It will make you look good.
*Read something uplifting. Deep-six the trash. You wouldn’t eat garbage—why put it in your head?
*Don’t abandon your old-fashioned principles. They never go out of style.
*When courage is needed, ask yourself, "If not me, who? If not now, when?"
*Take better care of yourself. Remember, you’re all you’ve got. Pass up that second helping. You really don’t need it. Vow to eat more sensibly. You’ll feel better and look better, too.
*Don’t put up with secondhand smoke. Nobody has the right to pollute your air or give you cancer. If someone says, "This is a free country," remind him or her that the country may be free, but no person is free if he has a habit he can’t control.
*Return those books you borrowed. Reschedule that missed dental appointment. Clean out your closet. Take those photos out of the drawer and put them in an album. If you see litter on the sidewalk, pick it up instead of walking over it.
*Give yourself a reality check. Phoniness is transparent, and it is tiresome. Take pleasure in the beauty and the wonders of nature. A flower is God’s miracle.
*Walk tall, and smile more. You’ll look 10 years younger.
*Don’t be afraid to say, "I love you." Say it again. They are the sweetest words in the world.
*If you have love in your life, consider yourself blessed, and vow to make this the best year ever.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Salt Lake is now in 2nd place. Please take a few moments and vote. Don't wait vote now at http://ping.fm/k3qcY
I need your support asap. Help Salt Lake City receive 1,000,000 for the food bank. Vote Salt Lake City at http://ping.fm/APfp6
Your Best Year
http://ping.fm/qQFJB
Like in everything we do, in life there is not a second chance; every moment, either we lose or win! Everything is mental; we bring to our life what we think about most of the time.
The road has two ways, one toward light and other toward darkness. Life is a choice! Everything and Everybody starts from zero; it is your choice in what place you finish. If we accept mental poverty, all kinds of poverty is what we get.
Change your attitude to win now! Be happy and relaxed, regardless of any circumstance. Always focus only on the solutions; don't let anybody rob you of your happiness. Don't allow challenges or circumstances to defeat you.
Do the right thing. Demand from yourself whatever it takes to win - clarity, focus, effort, persistence, sacrifice, discipline, passion, and love - not just to survive but also to win!
Life is a give and take; we stop receiving as soon as we stop giving the best of us!! That's the balance of life!!! If opportunity doesn't knock, build a door. Every tomorrow you will do even better.
Yes you can!
Yes you can do this. Make this coming year your year; just you have to believe in you.
--- Copyright © 2010 Eduardo Dominguez
http://ping.fm/qQFJB
Like in everything we do, in life there is not a second chance; every moment, either we lose or win! Everything is mental; we bring to our life what we think about most of the time.
The road has two ways, one toward light and other toward darkness. Life is a choice! Everything and Everybody starts from zero; it is your choice in what place you finish. If we accept mental poverty, all kinds of poverty is what we get.
Change your attitude to win now! Be happy and relaxed, regardless of any circumstance. Always focus only on the solutions; don't let anybody rob you of your happiness. Don't allow challenges or circumstances to defeat you.
Do the right thing. Demand from yourself whatever it takes to win - clarity, focus, effort, persistence, sacrifice, discipline, passion, and love - not just to survive but also to win!
Life is a give and take; we stop receiving as soon as we stop giving the best of us!! That's the balance of life!!! If opportunity doesn't knock, build a door. Every tomorrow you will do even better.
Yes you can!
Yes you can do this. Make this coming year your year; just you have to believe in you.
--- Copyright © 2010 Eduardo Dominguez
Monday, December 27, 2010
Goal Setting
I hope everyone had a very merry Christmas. I am personally very excited to end 2010 and begin 2011. For many years I have taken time at the end of each year to reflect on the successes, challenges, lessons and blessings of the year. This time has helped me learn from the experiences and assist in planning for my next year. I believe we all have things we would do better, differently or not at all (He He He) if we could look back and change some of our decisions. However, since we can only be grateful for what has happened and move forward by using those experiences to make better decisions, let’s look at that.
Take time this year to sit down with your family and design 2011. In the next few days I am going to be rolling out little pieces I use for this workshop and will give them to you for your use. Without goals, the universe will give you what you focus the most energy on. If you are focusing on bills, food and scarcity; you will get more bills, lack of food and more scarcity. If you make a plan and focus daily on achieving that plan, you will get what you have put in your plan. 2011 can be filled with blessings and my intention is to create them in my family and yours.
Look forward to the next few days when we can create this plan for 2011.
Live This Day With Excellence And Make It An Incredible Day!
J.J. Ulrich
Website: www.jjulrich.com | Mobile: 801-381-5111 | Skype: jj_ulrich | Email: me@jjulrich.com
Assistant | Jessica Jones | Phone: 801-652-6533 | Skype: jessica.jones112 | Email: jessicajones@connectingusall.org
My Creed: To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of the honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you lived. This is to have succeeded!
Take time this year to sit down with your family and design 2011. In the next few days I am going to be rolling out little pieces I use for this workshop and will give them to you for your use. Without goals, the universe will give you what you focus the most energy on. If you are focusing on bills, food and scarcity; you will get more bills, lack of food and more scarcity. If you make a plan and focus daily on achieving that plan, you will get what you have put in your plan. 2011 can be filled with blessings and my intention is to create them in my family and yours.
Look forward to the next few days when we can create this plan for 2011.
Live This Day With Excellence And Make It An Incredible Day!
J.J. Ulrich
Website: www.jjulrich.com | Mobile: 801-381-5111 | Skype: jj_ulrich | Email: me@jjulrich.com
Assistant | Jessica Jones | Phone: 801-652-6533 | Skype: jessica.jones112 | Email: jessicajones@connectingusall.org
My Creed: To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of the honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you lived. This is to have succeeded!
Time for New Beginnings. . . . . . . . . . . Taylor Addison, 1989
http://ping.fm/nvoKy
"This is a time for reflection as well as celebration.
As you look back on the past year and all that has taken place in your life,
Remember each experience for the good that has come of it
and for the knowledge you have gained.
Remember the efforts you have made and the goals you have reached.
Remember the love you have shared and the happiness you have brought.
Remember the laughter, the joy, the hard work, and the tears.
And as you reflect on the past year, also be thinking of the new one to come.
Because most importantly, this is a time of new beginnings
and the celebration of life."
http://ping.fm/nvoKy
"This is a time for reflection as well as celebration.
As you look back on the past year and all that has taken place in your life,
Remember each experience for the good that has come of it
and for the knowledge you have gained.
Remember the efforts you have made and the goals you have reached.
Remember the love you have shared and the happiness you have brought.
Remember the laughter, the joy, the hard work, and the tears.
And as you reflect on the past year, also be thinking of the new one to come.
Because most importantly, this is a time of new beginnings
and the celebration of life."
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Is For Love
http://ping.fm/VeNkP
Christmas is for love. It is for joy, for giving and sharing, for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for tinsel and brightly covered packages. But, mostly Christmas is for love. I had not believed this until a small elfin like pupil with wide innocent eyes and soft rosy cheeks gave me a wondrous gift one Christmas.
Matthew was a 10 year old orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter, middle aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to remind young Matthew, if it hadn't been for her generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still, with all the scolding and chilliness at home, he was a sweet and gentle child.Christmas Is For Love
I had not noticed Matthew particularly until he began staying after class each day [at the risk of arousing his aunt's anger so I learned later] to help me straighten up the room. We did this quietly and comfortably, not speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour of the day. When we did talk, Matthew spoke mostly of his mother. Though he was quite young when she died, he remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman who always spent time with him.
As Christmas drew near however, Matthew failed to stay after school each day. I looked forward to his coming, and when the days passed and he continued to scamper hurriedly from the room after class, I stopped him one afternoon and asked him why he no longer helped me in the room. I told him how I had missed him, and his large brown eyes lit up eagerly as he replied, 'Did you really miss me?'
I explained how he had been my best helper, 'I was making you a surprise,' he whispered confidentially. 'It's for Christmas.' With that, he became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He didn't stay after school any more after that.Christmas Is For Love
Finally came the last school day before Christmas. Matthew crept slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands concealing something behind his back. 'I have your present,' he said timidly when I looked up. 'I hope you like it.' He held out his hands, and there lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.
'It's beautiful, Matthew. Is there something in it?' I asked opening the top to look inside. 'Oh you can't see what's in it,' he replied, 'and you can't touch it, or taste it or feel it, but mother always said it makes you feel good all the time, warm on cold nights and safe when you're all alone.'
I gazed into the empty box. 'What is it, Matthew' I asked gently, 'that will make me feel so good?'
'It's love,' he whispered softly, 'and mother always said it's best when you give it away.' He turned and quietly left the room.
So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of wood on the piano in my living room and only smile when inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I explain to them there is love in it.
Yes, Christmas is for gaiety, mirth, song, and for good and wondrous gifts. But mostly, Christmas is for love.
http://ping.fm/VeNkP
Christmas is for love. It is for joy, for giving and sharing, for laughter, for reuniting with family and friends, for tinsel and brightly covered packages. But, mostly Christmas is for love. I had not believed this until a small elfin like pupil with wide innocent eyes and soft rosy cheeks gave me a wondrous gift one Christmas.
Matthew was a 10 year old orphan who lived with his aunt, a bitter, middle aged woman greatly annoyed with the burden of caring for her dead sister's son. She never failed to remind young Matthew, if it hadn't been for her generosity, he would be a vagrant, homeless waif. Still, with all the scolding and chilliness at home, he was a sweet and gentle child.Christmas Is For Love
I had not noticed Matthew particularly until he began staying after class each day [at the risk of arousing his aunt's anger so I learned later] to help me straighten up the room. We did this quietly and comfortably, not speaking much, but enjoying the solitude of that hour of the day. When we did talk, Matthew spoke mostly of his mother. Though he was quite young when she died, he remembered a kind, gentle, loving woman who always spent time with him.
As Christmas drew near however, Matthew failed to stay after school each day. I looked forward to his coming, and when the days passed and he continued to scamper hurriedly from the room after class, I stopped him one afternoon and asked him why he no longer helped me in the room. I told him how I had missed him, and his large brown eyes lit up eagerly as he replied, 'Did you really miss me?'
I explained how he had been my best helper, 'I was making you a surprise,' he whispered confidentially. 'It's for Christmas.' With that, he became embarrassed and dashed from the room. He didn't stay after school any more after that.Christmas Is For Love
Finally came the last school day before Christmas. Matthew crept slowly into the room late that afternoon with his hands concealing something behind his back. 'I have your present,' he said timidly when I looked up. 'I hope you like it.' He held out his hands, and there lying in his small palms was a tiny wooden box.
'It's beautiful, Matthew. Is there something in it?' I asked opening the top to look inside. 'Oh you can't see what's in it,' he replied, 'and you can't touch it, or taste it or feel it, but mother always said it makes you feel good all the time, warm on cold nights and safe when you're all alone.'
I gazed into the empty box. 'What is it, Matthew' I asked gently, 'that will make me feel so good?'
'It's love,' he whispered softly, 'and mother always said it's best when you give it away.' He turned and quietly left the room.
So now I keep a small box crudely made of scraps of wood on the piano in my living room and only smile when inquiring friends raise quizzical eyebrows when I explain to them there is love in it.
Yes, Christmas is for gaiety, mirth, song, and for good and wondrous gifts. But mostly, Christmas is for love.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
A Cop's Christmas
An Original Christmas Story by Chip Ciammaichella
http://ping.fm/CnMnF
It was just after 11 p.m. when the call came over the radio. The reflection of the city
lights made the falling snow look like a million points of light, drifting slowly toward the
frozen ground. The cop debated with himself whether he should respond to the call; a
burglar alarm at a nearby department store. His shift change was less than an hour away,
if someone indeed had broken into the store; the paperwork involved would take hours.
Sal wanted to get off at a reasonable hour for a change, after all it was Christmas Eve and
he still had to get presents for his kids. "The alarm was probably set off by an employee
locking up." thought Sal as he maneuvered the well-used vehicle toward the department
store.
"I'll never make it to the store, I guess I can just give the kids cash this year. They never
like my presents anyway and Maria wouldn't appreciate me barging into her house at two
in the morning anyway."
When Sal arrived at the department store, the building was dark and the area was quiet.
As Sal circled the patrol car around the building, the falling snow swirled like a tornado
through the beam of his spotlight. At the rear of the building, the spotlight's reflection
was engulfed by the darkness of an open garage door. Sal radioed for backup, and exited
the warm car to investigate.
As Sal approached the dark void of the open door, he noticed a single set of footprints in
the fresh snow. The prints led into the building, but not out again. Sal clutched his large
mag-light firmly in his left hand, while with his right he felt the inadequate security of his
service revolver, holstered at his side. Sal began to sweat as his mind flashed back to
another dark building, on another Christmas Eve.
Ten years earlier, Sal had responded to a break-in of a liquor store. As he entered the
darkened store a bright flash blinded him. Sal heard a loud crack of a pistol as his body
was hurled to the ground by the force of the bullet's impact into his chest. Although his
kevlar vest had saved his life that night, the force of the bullet still cracked three ribs and
knocked the wind out of the shocked officer.
Sal's survival instincts, honed by three combat tours in Vietnam, prevented him from
losing consciousness and gave him the strength to bring his service revolver to bear. His
last remembrance was of firing his revolver towards the flash, and unknown to him,
killing his attacker.
The flashlight was discarded as Sal entered the department store. He crouched just inside
the doorway and allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the ebony darkness of the
store.
During Sal's seventeen years on the police force, this particular store had been
burglarized on many occasions. As his eyes made out a dim outline of the store, Sal
remembered where the main lighting circuit breaker was located.
As the officer carefully inched his way toward the breaker box, he felt a twinge of pain in
his ribs where he had been shot ten years ago. He winced as he remembered being
released from the hospital, and how the pain from his wounds paled in comparison to the
heartache he felt when he found his wife and kids had left him.
Sal wasn't surprised that Maria had taken the kids and gone. Their life together had
started badly and just gotten worse. Sal could never bring himself to share with her the
horrors that tortured his mind, and she felt rejected. He felt that his experiences as a cop,
as well as a soldier, were not understandable to anyone, even himself. Maria watched
over the years, as Sal became distrustful and cynical. She watched, as he became more
and more dependent on work and a bottle of Jim Beam for solace. By the time she had
taken the kids and left, Sal and Maria were little more than strangers sharing the same
house.
Sal reached the light box and threw the switch. When the bright lights illuminated the
building, he heard the sound of footsteps running out the door he had entered. As he
rushed back to the open door, another patrol car was just pulling up. While the other
officers jumped out of their cruiser, Sal hollered, "Did you guys see anyone running away
when you pulled up?"
One of the newcomers on the scene, a portly officer who had a reputation for enjoying
more than his share of donuts, replied with a sneer, "No Sal, we didn't see nobody. Whats
a matter, did the little punk get away from ya?"
Sal didn't reply as the other officers laughed and snickered. Angrily he turned his
attention to the footprints leading into and out of the building. As Sal studied the details
of the prints that were not his own, slowly his anger was replaced by a confident grin.
"Maybe the punk got away, and maybe he didn't. You guys stay here until the manager
arrives, I'm going for a little walk." As an afterthought, he looked at his fat cohort. "Why
don't you make yourself useful and follow me in my car."
As Sal followed the footprints embedded in the freshly fallen snow, he thought to
himself, "Shoot, this is easier than tracking a wounded buck. Of course if I were trackin' a
buck, I'd be better armed, and bucks don't shoot back."
The trail ended only about a block and a half away, at the doorway of a dilapidated
bungalow. As Sal climbed the porch stairs, he noticed the same set of footprints had
obviously exited the residence earlier in the evening as the snow now nearly covered the
older prints. "Gotcha." Sal whispered into the cold night air.
Sal rapped sharply on the door then stepped back off to the side, revolver ready. Inside
the house Sal could hear the whining voice of a boy followed by the sharp voice of an
angry woman. He heard the rattle of the knob, as he watched the door open spilling light
over the porch. A plain, tired looking woman stood in the doorway dressed in a tattered
bathrobe, rollers in her mousy blonde hair. Behind her, with a look of horror and shame
etched across his face, was a boy of about twelve years old. Before Sal could speak, the
woman greeted him with a strained voice, "Merry Christmas officer, please come in."
As he entered the house, Sal noticed a garbage bag sitting against a wall. An expensive
mink coat was visible at the top of the bag. As Sal's eyes became adjusted to the dim
lights of the house, he observed more details about the house and its occupants.
The house was devoid of furniture, except for a well worn three legged couch. The bare
wooden floors were covered with strewn clothing and garbage. Roaches climbed freely
on the stained walls, and the stench of old trash permeated the chilly air. Sal glanced into
the kitchen and noticed that the dented door of the rusted oven was wide open and the
burners were all turned on, the only source of heat for the home.
As Sal turned to face the boy and the woman, movement from the doorway caught his
eye. Peeking around the door were the doe-like eyes of three little girls. Sal winked at
them as he addressed the woman. "Ma'am, I have reason to believe that your boy there
forcibly entered the Sears store over on 110th Street. I'll bet my left eye that that stuff in
that garbage bag there was stolen from that store."
The woman did not speak and tears began to roll from her bloodshot eyes. She turned to
the boy and gave him an icy stare. The boy choked back sobs as he spoke. "I took dat
stuff from dat store officer. My mama an' sisters needed presents for Christmas. My
mama ain't got no money, and everyone knows dat Santa ain't real. I just figured that
everyone else done already got their presents, and dat big store wouldn't miss a few
things."
Sal steeled himself from the boy's innocent tear filled eyes. "Don't let the kid's words get
you all mushy." Sal thought to himself, "Everyone's got a sob story, but it doesn't mean
they're above the law." Sal gave the boy his most intimidating stare as he removed his
handcuffs from his belt.
Sal continued his glare as he addressed the boy's mother. "I'm gonna have to take the boy
to the station ma'am. If you can get a sitter for your girls, I'll allow you to go with him."
A look of horror came into the woman's eyes when Sal added, "I could always call Social
Services if you can't get a sitter." The look in her eyes told Sal that the woman was more
afraid of Social Services than of the police.
Before the woman could reply, Sal began handcuffing the boy, but before he was finished
the three little girls rushed into the room with tears streaming down their cheeks. "Please
don't take Martin to jail Mr. Policeman!" cried the oldest girl. "Santa won't take him no
presents in jail." Sal could not look into the eyes of the girls and was relieved when their
mother scolded them and herded them off into the bedroom.
As the woman tended to her children, Sal inspected the items in the garbage bag. It
contained some dolls, girl's clothing, an expensive necklace, and the mink coat. Sal noted
that not one of the items was something a teenaged boy would want. "The boy probably
got scared off before he could get his own loot." Sal muttered under his breath.
When the woman reentered the room, she seemed to have regained her composure. As
Sal took the boy by the arm to lead him out the door, the woman spoke. "Martin ain't a
bad boy officer. He only gets onto trouble because he ain't got no man around to tan his
fanny."
Sal asked, "So where is the boy's father ma'am?" As soon as the words were spoken, he
wished he had kept his big mouth shut. "Now I'm gonna get the sob story." he thought as
he turned to the woman and listened.
"Martin's daddy was a no good bum. He weren't ever good at nothin' but drinkin' and
usin' drugs, and beatin' up on me. He seemed to try to be a good husbin after Martin was
born, but his friends and da drugs made sure dat was short lived." The woman paused,
then continued somewhat bitterly, "When Martin was only two years old, on Christmas
Eve, his daddy was killed by the police while robbin' a likker store. Since then I been
through dozens of men an' jobs tryin' to get by. I never took no welfare..."
The woman went on with her story but Sal was no longer listening. In his mind he
remembered his own experience in a liquor store, ten years ago tonight. He remembered
that he never even saw the person he shot and had refused to look at his mug shots
afterward. The pain in his ribs returned, and Sal felt like he would vomit at any second.
"It couldn't be the same guy." thought Sal, "Even if it was, he shot me first and I just shot
at whatever shot at me." Sal had never even thought of the burglar that had injured him as
a real person. Until now he had never contemplated the fact that the person might have
had a life, let alone a family. The repressed feelings inside Sal seemed to erupt like a
volcano. He turned away from the eyes of the woman and the boy, hoping that they could
not read his thoughts.
"I fetched Martin's toothbrush. Can he take it with him?" asked the woman, her voice not
much more than a whisper.
In that second, something inside of Sal snapped. All the pain, sorrow and agony of his
past seemed to be lifted from his heart, and he knew what he had to do.
"No." Sal replied curtly to the woman's question.
Sal turned to the boy and began removing his handcuffs. "I'm going to give you a break
boy." He exclaimed in his best command voice. "But if I ever catch you so much as
spitting on the street, I'll lock you up and throw away the key."
Neither the boy nor his mother could say a word. They just stared at Sal with amazement
and gratitude.
Sal continued, "Now you take this key and put all of the stuff you stole into the trunk of
my car outside, and tell my fat partner that I'll answer all of his questions later." When the
boy hesitated, Sal barked, "Go on and do it before I change my mind!" As the boy ran out
the door, garbage bag in tow, Sal reached into his pocket and turned to the woman. The
policeman stared at the floor as he placed a wad of money into the woman's hand.
"Ma'am, I want you to use this money to get you and your kids something nice for
Christmas. I don't tolerate stealing, but it is Christmas and kids deserve to have a nice
Christmas."
The boy returned giving Sal back his keys. The woman still had not spoken and Sal could
not look at her. "Don't think that you're getting away with anything." Sal said firmly to
the boy. "I'm going to be coming around here quite a bit to make sure you tow the line.
I'm sure I can find a hundred chores around here for you to do to pay for your crime."
As Sal turned his attention from the boy, his eyes met those of the woman. Her eyes were
wet with tears and expressed a mixture of gratitude, sorrow, and Sal even thought...pity.
He quickly avoided the woman's eyes and started for the door. "Merry Christmas!" he
bellowed as he walked through the door and out into the snowy night air.
As he walked to his car, Sal thought he heard the woman say "God bless you." But the
words were barely loud enough to overcome the thunderous beating of his heart.
Sal knew that he bore no responsibility for the state of existence of Martin and his family,
but at the same time, he wanted to help.
"Maybe I want to help these people to make up for all the people I couldn't help." Sal said
to himself as he got into his patrol car. "Or maybe it was just the right thing to do."
As Sal closed the door, he thought he heard the tinkle of sleigh bells overhead. As he
looked up, he caught a shadow moving swiftly through the snowy night. He shook his
head and rubbed his eyes. "Got to start sleeping better," he thought as the patrol car eased
into the night. He gave his fat partner a look that made it no secret that questions were not
welcome, as they made their way through the snowy Cleveland streets back to the
stationhouse.
When the patrol car pulled into the underground garage of the police station, Sal took the
keys and went to the trunk to retrieve the stolen merchandise, as the fat man made a
beeline for the cafeteria. As he put the key into the trunk, he glanced at his watch and
grimaced.
"Damn, all the stores are closed by now...guess the kids are gonna have to get cash this
Christmas." His mood darkened, because he knew that his son had wanted Ninja Turtles,
and his daughter wanted a boom box...presents he had promised Maria he would buy.
"Just call me Father of the Year, I guess," he mumbled as he raised the trunk.
As he pulled the trash bag of stolen goods from the car, he noticed two additional
packages also lay in the trunk...packages that were not part of the stolen goods and not
there when he went on duty earlier that evening. His face turned bright red as he noticed
that one was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action set, and the other a small Sony
portable stereo/tape player. At first he thought that his fat friend may have actually
thought of something more than donuts and gone to the department store for him as he
reclaimed the stolen merchandise, until a note attached to the boom box caught his eye.
You did a family a great service tonight, and I hope you
will do one for me as well. I am way behind this year, so
could you please deliver these to your children for me.
Merry Christmas.
Kris Kringle
A few moments later, two officers just coming on duty were dumbfounded as they found
Sal lying on the concrete floor, laughing hysterically and singing jingle bells as if he had
been drinking. They were even more shocked when he jumped up and hugged them both,
screaming "Merry Christmas!!" before running into the station house like a madman, a
twinkle in his eye that he hadn't had in years.
An Original Christmas Story by Chip Ciammaichella
http://ping.fm/CnMnF
It was just after 11 p.m. when the call came over the radio. The reflection of the city
lights made the falling snow look like a million points of light, drifting slowly toward the
frozen ground. The cop debated with himself whether he should respond to the call; a
burglar alarm at a nearby department store. His shift change was less than an hour away,
if someone indeed had broken into the store; the paperwork involved would take hours.
Sal wanted to get off at a reasonable hour for a change, after all it was Christmas Eve and
he still had to get presents for his kids. "The alarm was probably set off by an employee
locking up." thought Sal as he maneuvered the well-used vehicle toward the department
store.
"I'll never make it to the store, I guess I can just give the kids cash this year. They never
like my presents anyway and Maria wouldn't appreciate me barging into her house at two
in the morning anyway."
When Sal arrived at the department store, the building was dark and the area was quiet.
As Sal circled the patrol car around the building, the falling snow swirled like a tornado
through the beam of his spotlight. At the rear of the building, the spotlight's reflection
was engulfed by the darkness of an open garage door. Sal radioed for backup, and exited
the warm car to investigate.
As Sal approached the dark void of the open door, he noticed a single set of footprints in
the fresh snow. The prints led into the building, but not out again. Sal clutched his large
mag-light firmly in his left hand, while with his right he felt the inadequate security of his
service revolver, holstered at his side. Sal began to sweat as his mind flashed back to
another dark building, on another Christmas Eve.
Ten years earlier, Sal had responded to a break-in of a liquor store. As he entered the
darkened store a bright flash blinded him. Sal heard a loud crack of a pistol as his body
was hurled to the ground by the force of the bullet's impact into his chest. Although his
kevlar vest had saved his life that night, the force of the bullet still cracked three ribs and
knocked the wind out of the shocked officer.
Sal's survival instincts, honed by three combat tours in Vietnam, prevented him from
losing consciousness and gave him the strength to bring his service revolver to bear. His
last remembrance was of firing his revolver towards the flash, and unknown to him,
killing his attacker.
The flashlight was discarded as Sal entered the department store. He crouched just inside
the doorway and allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the ebony darkness of the
store.
During Sal's seventeen years on the police force, this particular store had been
burglarized on many occasions. As his eyes made out a dim outline of the store, Sal
remembered where the main lighting circuit breaker was located.
As the officer carefully inched his way toward the breaker box, he felt a twinge of pain in
his ribs where he had been shot ten years ago. He winced as he remembered being
released from the hospital, and how the pain from his wounds paled in comparison to the
heartache he felt when he found his wife and kids had left him.
Sal wasn't surprised that Maria had taken the kids and gone. Their life together had
started badly and just gotten worse. Sal could never bring himself to share with her the
horrors that tortured his mind, and she felt rejected. He felt that his experiences as a cop,
as well as a soldier, were not understandable to anyone, even himself. Maria watched
over the years, as Sal became distrustful and cynical. She watched, as he became more
and more dependent on work and a bottle of Jim Beam for solace. By the time she had
taken the kids and left, Sal and Maria were little more than strangers sharing the same
house.
Sal reached the light box and threw the switch. When the bright lights illuminated the
building, he heard the sound of footsteps running out the door he had entered. As he
rushed back to the open door, another patrol car was just pulling up. While the other
officers jumped out of their cruiser, Sal hollered, "Did you guys see anyone running away
when you pulled up?"
One of the newcomers on the scene, a portly officer who had a reputation for enjoying
more than his share of donuts, replied with a sneer, "No Sal, we didn't see nobody. Whats
a matter, did the little punk get away from ya?"
Sal didn't reply as the other officers laughed and snickered. Angrily he turned his
attention to the footprints leading into and out of the building. As Sal studied the details
of the prints that were not his own, slowly his anger was replaced by a confident grin.
"Maybe the punk got away, and maybe he didn't. You guys stay here until the manager
arrives, I'm going for a little walk." As an afterthought, he looked at his fat cohort. "Why
don't you make yourself useful and follow me in my car."
As Sal followed the footprints embedded in the freshly fallen snow, he thought to
himself, "Shoot, this is easier than tracking a wounded buck. Of course if I were trackin' a
buck, I'd be better armed, and bucks don't shoot back."
The trail ended only about a block and a half away, at the doorway of a dilapidated
bungalow. As Sal climbed the porch stairs, he noticed the same set of footprints had
obviously exited the residence earlier in the evening as the snow now nearly covered the
older prints. "Gotcha." Sal whispered into the cold night air.
Sal rapped sharply on the door then stepped back off to the side, revolver ready. Inside
the house Sal could hear the whining voice of a boy followed by the sharp voice of an
angry woman. He heard the rattle of the knob, as he watched the door open spilling light
over the porch. A plain, tired looking woman stood in the doorway dressed in a tattered
bathrobe, rollers in her mousy blonde hair. Behind her, with a look of horror and shame
etched across his face, was a boy of about twelve years old. Before Sal could speak, the
woman greeted him with a strained voice, "Merry Christmas officer, please come in."
As he entered the house, Sal noticed a garbage bag sitting against a wall. An expensive
mink coat was visible at the top of the bag. As Sal's eyes became adjusted to the dim
lights of the house, he observed more details about the house and its occupants.
The house was devoid of furniture, except for a well worn three legged couch. The bare
wooden floors were covered with strewn clothing and garbage. Roaches climbed freely
on the stained walls, and the stench of old trash permeated the chilly air. Sal glanced into
the kitchen and noticed that the dented door of the rusted oven was wide open and the
burners were all turned on, the only source of heat for the home.
As Sal turned to face the boy and the woman, movement from the doorway caught his
eye. Peeking around the door were the doe-like eyes of three little girls. Sal winked at
them as he addressed the woman. "Ma'am, I have reason to believe that your boy there
forcibly entered the Sears store over on 110th Street. I'll bet my left eye that that stuff in
that garbage bag there was stolen from that store."
The woman did not speak and tears began to roll from her bloodshot eyes. She turned to
the boy and gave him an icy stare. The boy choked back sobs as he spoke. "I took dat
stuff from dat store officer. My mama an' sisters needed presents for Christmas. My
mama ain't got no money, and everyone knows dat Santa ain't real. I just figured that
everyone else done already got their presents, and dat big store wouldn't miss a few
things."
Sal steeled himself from the boy's innocent tear filled eyes. "Don't let the kid's words get
you all mushy." Sal thought to himself, "Everyone's got a sob story, but it doesn't mean
they're above the law." Sal gave the boy his most intimidating stare as he removed his
handcuffs from his belt.
Sal continued his glare as he addressed the boy's mother. "I'm gonna have to take the boy
to the station ma'am. If you can get a sitter for your girls, I'll allow you to go with him."
A look of horror came into the woman's eyes when Sal added, "I could always call Social
Services if you can't get a sitter." The look in her eyes told Sal that the woman was more
afraid of Social Services than of the police.
Before the woman could reply, Sal began handcuffing the boy, but before he was finished
the three little girls rushed into the room with tears streaming down their cheeks. "Please
don't take Martin to jail Mr. Policeman!" cried the oldest girl. "Santa won't take him no
presents in jail." Sal could not look into the eyes of the girls and was relieved when their
mother scolded them and herded them off into the bedroom.
As the woman tended to her children, Sal inspected the items in the garbage bag. It
contained some dolls, girl's clothing, an expensive necklace, and the mink coat. Sal noted
that not one of the items was something a teenaged boy would want. "The boy probably
got scared off before he could get his own loot." Sal muttered under his breath.
When the woman reentered the room, she seemed to have regained her composure. As
Sal took the boy by the arm to lead him out the door, the woman spoke. "Martin ain't a
bad boy officer. He only gets onto trouble because he ain't got no man around to tan his
fanny."
Sal asked, "So where is the boy's father ma'am?" As soon as the words were spoken, he
wished he had kept his big mouth shut. "Now I'm gonna get the sob story." he thought as
he turned to the woman and listened.
"Martin's daddy was a no good bum. He weren't ever good at nothin' but drinkin' and
usin' drugs, and beatin' up on me. He seemed to try to be a good husbin after Martin was
born, but his friends and da drugs made sure dat was short lived." The woman paused,
then continued somewhat bitterly, "When Martin was only two years old, on Christmas
Eve, his daddy was killed by the police while robbin' a likker store. Since then I been
through dozens of men an' jobs tryin' to get by. I never took no welfare..."
The woman went on with her story but Sal was no longer listening. In his mind he
remembered his own experience in a liquor store, ten years ago tonight. He remembered
that he never even saw the person he shot and had refused to look at his mug shots
afterward. The pain in his ribs returned, and Sal felt like he would vomit at any second.
"It couldn't be the same guy." thought Sal, "Even if it was, he shot me first and I just shot
at whatever shot at me." Sal had never even thought of the burglar that had injured him as
a real person. Until now he had never contemplated the fact that the person might have
had a life, let alone a family. The repressed feelings inside Sal seemed to erupt like a
volcano. He turned away from the eyes of the woman and the boy, hoping that they could
not read his thoughts.
"I fetched Martin's toothbrush. Can he take it with him?" asked the woman, her voice not
much more than a whisper.
In that second, something inside of Sal snapped. All the pain, sorrow and agony of his
past seemed to be lifted from his heart, and he knew what he had to do.
"No." Sal replied curtly to the woman's question.
Sal turned to the boy and began removing his handcuffs. "I'm going to give you a break
boy." He exclaimed in his best command voice. "But if I ever catch you so much as
spitting on the street, I'll lock you up and throw away the key."
Neither the boy nor his mother could say a word. They just stared at Sal with amazement
and gratitude.
Sal continued, "Now you take this key and put all of the stuff you stole into the trunk of
my car outside, and tell my fat partner that I'll answer all of his questions later." When the
boy hesitated, Sal barked, "Go on and do it before I change my mind!" As the boy ran out
the door, garbage bag in tow, Sal reached into his pocket and turned to the woman. The
policeman stared at the floor as he placed a wad of money into the woman's hand.
"Ma'am, I want you to use this money to get you and your kids something nice for
Christmas. I don't tolerate stealing, but it is Christmas and kids deserve to have a nice
Christmas."
The boy returned giving Sal back his keys. The woman still had not spoken and Sal could
not look at her. "Don't think that you're getting away with anything." Sal said firmly to
the boy. "I'm going to be coming around here quite a bit to make sure you tow the line.
I'm sure I can find a hundred chores around here for you to do to pay for your crime."
As Sal turned his attention from the boy, his eyes met those of the woman. Her eyes were
wet with tears and expressed a mixture of gratitude, sorrow, and Sal even thought...pity.
He quickly avoided the woman's eyes and started for the door. "Merry Christmas!" he
bellowed as he walked through the door and out into the snowy night air.
As he walked to his car, Sal thought he heard the woman say "God bless you." But the
words were barely loud enough to overcome the thunderous beating of his heart.
Sal knew that he bore no responsibility for the state of existence of Martin and his family,
but at the same time, he wanted to help.
"Maybe I want to help these people to make up for all the people I couldn't help." Sal said
to himself as he got into his patrol car. "Or maybe it was just the right thing to do."
As Sal closed the door, he thought he heard the tinkle of sleigh bells overhead. As he
looked up, he caught a shadow moving swiftly through the snowy night. He shook his
head and rubbed his eyes. "Got to start sleeping better," he thought as the patrol car eased
into the night. He gave his fat partner a look that made it no secret that questions were not
welcome, as they made their way through the snowy Cleveland streets back to the
stationhouse.
When the patrol car pulled into the underground garage of the police station, Sal took the
keys and went to the trunk to retrieve the stolen merchandise, as the fat man made a
beeline for the cafeteria. As he put the key into the trunk, he glanced at his watch and
grimaced.
"Damn, all the stores are closed by now...guess the kids are gonna have to get cash this
Christmas." His mood darkened, because he knew that his son had wanted Ninja Turtles,
and his daughter wanted a boom box...presents he had promised Maria he would buy.
"Just call me Father of the Year, I guess," he mumbled as he raised the trunk.
As he pulled the trash bag of stolen goods from the car, he noticed two additional
packages also lay in the trunk...packages that were not part of the stolen goods and not
there when he went on duty earlier that evening. His face turned bright red as he noticed
that one was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action set, and the other a small Sony
portable stereo/tape player. At first he thought that his fat friend may have actually
thought of something more than donuts and gone to the department store for him as he
reclaimed the stolen merchandise, until a note attached to the boom box caught his eye.
You did a family a great service tonight, and I hope you
will do one for me as well. I am way behind this year, so
could you please deliver these to your children for me.
Merry Christmas.
Kris Kringle
A few moments later, two officers just coming on duty were dumbfounded as they found
Sal lying on the concrete floor, laughing hysterically and singing jingle bells as if he had
been drinking. They were even more shocked when he jumped up and hugged them both,
screaming "Merry Christmas!!" before running into the station house like a madman, a
twinkle in his eye that he hadn't had in years.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Merry Christmas
http://ping.fm/NPV5n
Remember that a gift should be treasured; not only the ones that are wrapped but ones that are bestowed upon you.
Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together, they traveled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the family estate.
The widowed elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.
One year, as winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic.
Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season that he and his son had looked forward to would visit his house no longer.
On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hands.
He introduced himself to the old man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you."
As the two began to talk, the soldier told of how the man's son had told everyone of his, not to mention his father's, love of fine art. "I am no artist," said the soldier, "but I want to give you this."
As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking detail.
Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace. A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars worth of art. His task completed, the old man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.
During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that, even though is son was no longer with him, the boy would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn that his son had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stifled his caring heart.
As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease his grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamored. He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received.
The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation that the collector's passing and his only son dead, those paintings would be sold at auction. According to the will of the old man, all art works would be auctioned on Christmas Day, the day he had received the greatest gift.
The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim, "I have the greatest collection."
The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid, but the room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes passed, and no one spoke. From the back of the room came a voice, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son." "Let's forget about it and move on to the good stuff," more voices echoed in agreement.
"No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "Now, who will take the son?" Finally, a neighbor of the old man spoke. "Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy; so I would like to have it.
"I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?" asked the auctioneer. After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once, going twice, gone." The gavel fell.
Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and we can bid on the real treasures!" The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced that the auction was over.
Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean, it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of some old guy's son. What about all these paintings? There are millions of dollars worth of art here! I demand that you explain what is going on!"
The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son...gets it all."
Puts things into perspective, doesn't it? Just as those art collectors discovered on Christmas Day, the message is still the same: the love of a father, whose greatest joy came from his son who went away and gave his life rescuing others; and because of that father's love, whoever takes the Son gets it all.
In life, many things will catch your eye, but only a few will catch your heart.
--- Author Unknown
http://ping.fm/NPV5n
Remember that a gift should be treasured; not only the ones that are wrapped but ones that are bestowed upon you.
Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together, they traveled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the family estate.
The widowed elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.
One year, as winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic.
Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season that he and his son had looked forward to would visit his house no longer.
On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hands.
He introduced himself to the old man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you."
As the two began to talk, the soldier told of how the man's son had told everyone of his, not to mention his father's, love of fine art. "I am no artist," said the soldier, "but I want to give you this."
As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking detail.
Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace. A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars worth of art. His task completed, the old man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.
During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that, even though is son was no longer with him, the boy would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn that his son had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stifled his caring heart.
As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease his grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamored. He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received.
The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation that the collector's passing and his only son dead, those paintings would be sold at auction. According to the will of the old man, all art works would be auctioned on Christmas Day, the day he had received the greatest gift.
The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim, "I have the greatest collection."
The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid, but the room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes passed, and no one spoke. From the back of the room came a voice, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son." "Let's forget about it and move on to the good stuff," more voices echoed in agreement.
"No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "Now, who will take the son?" Finally, a neighbor of the old man spoke. "Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy; so I would like to have it.
"I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?" asked the auctioneer. After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once, going twice, gone." The gavel fell.
Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and we can bid on the real treasures!" The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced that the auction was over.
Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean, it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of some old guy's son. What about all these paintings? There are millions of dollars worth of art here! I demand that you explain what is going on!"
The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son...gets it all."
Puts things into perspective, doesn't it? Just as those art collectors discovered on Christmas Day, the message is still the same: the love of a father, whose greatest joy came from his son who went away and gave his life rescuing others; and because of that father's love, whoever takes the Son gets it all.
In life, many things will catch your eye, but only a few will catch your heart.
--- Author Unknown
Friday, December 17, 2010
A SOLDIER'S CHRISTMAS
http://ping.fm/erAeG
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
my daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
in perfect contentment, or so it would seem.
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eye when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
and I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
to the window that danced with a warm fire's light.
Then he sighed and he said "It's really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
that separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me."
"My Gramps died at 'Pearl on a day in December,"
then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers.
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of 'Nam
And now it is my turn and so, here I am."
"I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile."
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red white and blue... an American flag.
"I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home,
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat,
I can carry the weight of killing another
or lay down my life with my sisters and brothers
who stand at the front against any and all,
to insure for all time that this flag will not fall."
"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone.
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
to know you remember we fought and we bled
is payment enough, and with that we will trust.
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."
--- Copyright © 2000 Michael Marks
http://ping.fm/erAeG
The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
my daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
in perfect contentment, or so it would seem.
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn't loud, and it wasn't too near,
But I opened my eye when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn't quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
and I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
"What are you doing?" I asked without fear,
"Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!"
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
to the window that danced with a warm fire's light.
Then he sighed and he said "It's really all right,
I'm out here by choice. I'm here every night."
"It's my duty to stand at the front of the line,
that separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here like my fathers before me."
"My Gramps died at 'Pearl on a day in December,"
then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always remembers.
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of 'Nam
And now it is my turn and so, here I am."
"I've not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her smile."
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red white and blue... an American flag.
"I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home,
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat,
I can carry the weight of killing another
or lay down my life with my sisters and brothers
who stand at the front against any and all,
to insure for all time that this flag will not fall."
"So go back inside," he said, "harbor no fright
Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there something I can do, at the least,
Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you've done,
For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
"Just tell us you love us, and never forget
To fight for our rights back at home while we're gone.
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
to know you remember we fought and we bled
is payment enough, and with that we will trust.
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us."
--- Copyright © 2000 Michael Marks
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Christmas Envelope
http://ping.fm/Pi9JH
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so. It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas-oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it-overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma-the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented
a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he
swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition-one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas,
and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always
the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and
someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
May we all remember the Christmas spirit this year and always.
http://ping.fm/Pi9JH
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so. It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas-oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it-overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma-the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented
a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he
swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition-one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas,
and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always
the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and
someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
May we all remember the Christmas spirit this year and always.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
THE CHRISTMAS ORANGE
http://ping.fm/77cTO
I'd like to tell you a story my grandmother told me when I was six or seven years old. We had gone to her home for Thanksgiving dinner and the drive was rather a long one. I had filled the time with making a list of all the things that I wanted for Christmas that year.
Later that evening after I was ready for bed, I showed the list to my grandmother. After she read it, she said, "My goodness, that really is a long list!" Then she picked me up and set me on her lap in the big rocking chair and told me this story:
"Once there was a little girl who came to live in an orphanage in Denmark" (Now my grandmother was from Denmark, so this story might even be true.) "As Christmas time grew near, all of the other children began telling the little girl about the beautiful Christmas tree that would appear in the huge downstairs hall on Christmas morning. After their usual, very plain breakfast, each child would be given their one and only Christmas gift; small, single orange."
At this point I looked up at my grandmother in disbelief, but she assured me that was all each child would receive for Christmas.
"Now the headmaster of the orphanage was very stern and he thought Christmas to be a bother. So on Christmas Eve, when he caught the little girl creeping down the stairs to catch a peek at the much-heard-of Christmas tree, he sharply declared that the little girl would not receive her Christmas orange because she had been so curious as to disobey the rules. The little girl ran back to her room broken-hearted and crying at her terrible fate."
"The next morning as the other children were going down to breakfast, the little girl stayed in her bed. She couldn't stand the thought of seeing the others receive their gift when there would be none for her."
"Later, as the children came back upstairs, the little girl was surprised to be handed a napkin. As she carefully opened it, there to her disbelief was an orange all peeled and sectioned."
"How could this be?" she asked.
"It was then that she found how each child had taken one section from their orange and given it to her so that she, too, would have a Christmas orange."
How I loved this story! I would ask my grandmother to tell it to me over and over as I grew up. Every Christmas, as I pull a big, juicy orange from my stocking, I think of this story. What an example of the true meaning of Christmas those orphan children displayed that Christmas morning. How I wish the world, as a whole would display that same kind of Christ-like concern for others, not just at Christmas, but throughout the year.
--- Author Unknown
http://ping.fm/77cTO
I'd like to tell you a story my grandmother told me when I was six or seven years old. We had gone to her home for Thanksgiving dinner and the drive was rather a long one. I had filled the time with making a list of all the things that I wanted for Christmas that year.
Later that evening after I was ready for bed, I showed the list to my grandmother. After she read it, she said, "My goodness, that really is a long list!" Then she picked me up and set me on her lap in the big rocking chair and told me this story:
"Once there was a little girl who came to live in an orphanage in Denmark" (Now my grandmother was from Denmark, so this story might even be true.) "As Christmas time grew near, all of the other children began telling the little girl about the beautiful Christmas tree that would appear in the huge downstairs hall on Christmas morning. After their usual, very plain breakfast, each child would be given their one and only Christmas gift; small, single orange."
At this point I looked up at my grandmother in disbelief, but she assured me that was all each child would receive for Christmas.
"Now the headmaster of the orphanage was very stern and he thought Christmas to be a bother. So on Christmas Eve, when he caught the little girl creeping down the stairs to catch a peek at the much-heard-of Christmas tree, he sharply declared that the little girl would not receive her Christmas orange because she had been so curious as to disobey the rules. The little girl ran back to her room broken-hearted and crying at her terrible fate."
"The next morning as the other children were going down to breakfast, the little girl stayed in her bed. She couldn't stand the thought of seeing the others receive their gift when there would be none for her."
"Later, as the children came back upstairs, the little girl was surprised to be handed a napkin. As she carefully opened it, there to her disbelief was an orange all peeled and sectioned."
"How could this be?" she asked.
"It was then that she found how each child had taken one section from their orange and given it to her so that she, too, would have a Christmas orange."
How I loved this story! I would ask my grandmother to tell it to me over and over as I grew up. Every Christmas, as I pull a big, juicy orange from my stocking, I think of this story. What an example of the true meaning of Christmas those orphan children displayed that Christmas morning. How I wish the world, as a whole would display that same kind of Christ-like concern for others, not just at Christmas, but throughout the year.
--- Author Unknown
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
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