part0001

A PERFECT POT OF TEA by Roberta Messner ENCOURAGING WORDS by Susan Maycinik THREE LETTERS FROM TEDDY by Elizabeth Silance Ballard THE COMFORT OF A COLD, WET NOSE by Barbara Baumgardner GIVING AND RECEIVING by Billie Davis TEACHER DAN by Marilyn McAuley THE MENDER by Ruth Bell Graham LONG RANGE VISION by Howard Hendricks THE RED COAT by Melody Carlson THE YOUNG WIDOW by Alice Gray MICHAELS STORY BEGINS AT AGE SIX by Charlotte Elmore COME IN TOGETHER by Stu Weber FIRST THINGS by Tony Campolo

VIKTUE —79

FORGIVENESS THESE THINGS I WISH FOR YOU by Paul Harvey WHY I'M A SPORTS MOM by Judy Bodmer TO WHOM SHALL I LEAVE MY KINGDOM? by Donald E. Wildmon THE MAGNADOODLE MESSAGE by Liz Curtis Higgs BEAUTY CONTEST by Carla Muir

BOUQUET by David Seamands OLYMPIC GOLD by Catherine Swift A CANDY BAR by Doris Sanford WHAT TO LISTEN FOR by Tim Hansel GOOD TURN by Nola Bertelson BEHIND THE QUICK SKETCH by Joni Eareckson Tada ANDROCLUS AND THE LION by Autus Gellius, retold by Casandra Lindell GOSSIP by Billy Graham THE TOE-TAPPER by Joan Sparks TAKING SIDES by Zig Ziglar THE DRESS by Margaret Jensen

DISTANT RELATIVES by Carla Muir IT'S MORE THAN A JOB by Charles Swindoll A TENDER WARRIOR by Stu Weber

lOVE —117

ONENESS THE PENCIL BOX by Doris Sanford SHE'S MY PRECIOUS by Robertson McQuilkin THE FINAL BID by Robert Strand SHOOOOPPPING! by Gary Smalley HEIRLOOM by Ann Weems, retold by Alice Gray IT HAPPENED ON THE BROOKLYN SUBWAY

by Paul Deutschman LOVE IS A GRANDPARENT by Erma Bombeck

LOVE FROM THE HEART by Chad Miller EXTRAORDINARY PEOPLE by ]o Ann Larsen 50 PROMISES FOR MARRIAGE by Steve Stephens

THE TREASURE by Alice Gray THAT LITTLE CHINA CHIP by Bettie B. Youngs THE DANCE by Thelda Bevens DON'T FORGET WHAT REALLY MATTERS by Paul Harvey THE LAST "I LOVE YOU" by Debbi Smoot

FAMILY ^153

A MOMENT IN TIME by Matthew Norquist WHEN GROWN KIDS COME TO VISIT by Erma Bombeck

RUNNING AWAY by Christopher de Vinck WHY MY WIFE BOUGHT HANDCUFFS by Philip Gulley TOO BUSY by Ron Mehl WHEN THE MOON DOESN'T SHINE by Ruth Senter FATHER'S DAY: A TRIBUTE by Max Lucado

RELEASING THE ARROW by Stu Weber LAUGHTER IN THE WALLS by Bob Benson DAD'S HELPER by Ron Mehl

LEGACY OF AN ADOPTED CHILD THE GIFT h^' George Parler PAPA'S SERMON ALONE TIME FOR MOM by Crystal Kirgiss WORDS FOR YOUR FAMILY by Gary Snialley and John Trent GIFT OF LOVE by James Dobson A MOTHER'S WAY by Temple Bailey TENDER INTUITION by Robm Jones Gunn SLIPPERY RISKS by Heather Harpham Kopp FAMILY VACATIONS AND OTHER THREATS TO MARRIAGE

by Philip Gulley WHEN GOD CREATED FATHERS by Erma Bombeck

IM —193

NO BOX by Kenneth Caraway LOOKIN' GOOD by Patsy Clmrmont A STREET VENIX)R NAMED CONTENTMENT by Max Lucado GROWING ROOTS by PhiUp Gulley PERSPECTIVE by Manlyn McAuley SAVING THE BROKEN PIECES by Robert Schuller TRAIN TO BARCELONA by Jon Senter Stuart SANDCASTLES by Max Lucado THE CRAZY QUILT by Melody Carbon ONE MAN'S JUNK.. .ANOTHER MAN'S TREASURE by Ron MeU COMMENCE PRAYER by Charles Suindoll SECRET CR.\CKS AND CREVICES by Melody Carlson BACK ON COURSE by Sandy Snavely REDWOOD CANYON Casandra Lindell LIFE BEGINS AT 80 BUS STOP by Patsy Clairmont

FAITH —227

SEEING GOD CINDERELLA by Max Lucado A NEW PERSPECTIVE by Billy Graham TREASURES IN HEAVEN by Bob Welch HIDE AND SEEK by Brother David SteindlRast, retold by Brenrum Manning THE LAMPLIGHTER by Marilyn McAuley SOFT CRIES by Ruth Bell Graham SPIRITUAL HERO by James Dobson DRIFTING by Tony Evans ONLY GLIMPSES by Alice Gray THE CASTLE OF GOD'S LOVE by Larry Libby A VISION OF FORGIVENESS by Gigi Tchividjian A MEETING OF THE MINDS by Kevin Keller RUNNING FOR DADDY! by Kay Arthur REAL TREASURE by Robin Jones Gunn CALM IN THE STORM by Ron Mehl A PARABLE OF GOD'S PERSPECTIVE by Robin Jones, retold by Casandra Lindell WORSHIP AND WORRY by Ruth Bell Graham ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN? MAKING ADJUSTMENTS by Ron Mehl THE ARTIST THE BELLS ARE RINGING by James Dobson HEAVEN

NOTES —263

COMPASSION 15

/ Want That One

Charles Stanley

Iheard a story once about a farmer who had some puppies for sale. He made a sign advertising the pups and nailed it to a post on the edge of his yard. As he was nailing the sign to the post, he felt a tug on his overalls. He looked down to see a little boy with a big grin and something in his hand.

"Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies." "Well," said the farmer, "these puppies come from fine parents and cost a good deal."

The boy dropped his head for a moment, then looked back up at the farmer and said, "I've got thirty-nine cents. Is that enough to take a look?"

"Sure," said the farmer, and with that he whistled and called out, "Dolly. Here, Dolly." Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran Dolly followed by four litde balls of fur. The litde boy's eyes danced with delight.

Then out from the doghouse peeked another little ball; this one noticeably smaller. Down the ramp it slid and began hobbling in an unrewarded attempt to catch up with the others. The pup was clearly the runt of the litter.

The litde boy pressed his face to the fence and cried out, "I want that one," pointing to the runt.

The farmer knelt down and said, "Son, you don't want that puppy. He will never be able to run and play with you the way you would like."

With that the boy reached dovm and slowly pulled up one leg of his trousers. In doing so he revealed a steel brace running down both sides of his leg attaching itself to a specially made shoe. Looking up at the farmer, he said, "\bu see, sir, I don't run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands."

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

He Needed a Son

Author Unknown

The nurse escorted a tired, anxious young man to the bedside of an elderly man. "Your son is here," she whispered to the patient. She had to repeat the words several times before the patient's eyes opened. He was heavily sedated because of the pain of his heart attack and he dimly saw the young man standing outside the oxygen tent.

He reached out his hand and the young man tightly v^apped his fingers around it, squeezing a message of encouragement. The nurse brought a chair next to the bedside. All through the night the young man sat holding the old man's hand and offering gende words of hope. The dying man said nothing as he held tightly to his son.

As dawn approached, the patient died. The young man placed on the bed the lifeless hand he had been holding, then he went to notify the nurse. While the nurse did what was necessary, the young man waited. When she had finished her task, the nurse began to offer words of sympathy to the young man. But he interrupted her.

"Who was that man?" he asked.

The startled nurse replied, "I thought he was your father."

"No, he was not my father," he answered. "I never saw him before in my life."

"Then why didn't you say something when I took you to him?" asked the nurse.

He replied, "I also knew he needed his son, and his son just wasn't here. When I realized he was too sick to tell whether or not I was his son, I knew how much he needed me."

COMPASSION 17

Significance

R. C. Sproul

Ihad a college student who was a victim of cerebral palsy. He was able to walk, but with great difficulty as his legs and arms would fly in all directions, out of control of the motor impulses which make walking a normally simple task. His speech was slurred, slow and agonizing, demanding great concentration on the part of the listener to understand. There was nothing wrong with his mind, however, and his sparkling personality and spontaneous smile were an inspiration to his classmates and to all who encountered him.

One day he came to me vexed by a problem and asked me to pray for him. In the course of the prayer, I said something routine, with words like, "Oh, God, please help this man as he wresdes with his problem." When I opened my eyes the student was quietly weeping.

I asked him what was wrong and he stammered his reply, "You called me a man—no one has ever called me a man

before.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Information Please

PaulVilliard

hen I was quite young, my family had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished oak case fastened to the wall on the lower stair landing. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I even remember the number—105. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it. Once she lifted me up to speak to my father, who was away on business. Magic!

Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful device lived an amazing person—her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. My mother could ask her for anybody's number; when our clock ran dovm. Information Please immediately supplied the right time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-receiver came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the toolbench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be much use crying because there was no one home to offer sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear. "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.

A click or two, and a small, clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."

"I hurt my fingerrr—" I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough, now that I had an audience.

Reprinted by permission of Reader's Digest.

COMPASSION 19

"Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me," I blubbered. "Are you bleeding? "

"No," I replied. "I hit it with the hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open your ice box?" she asked. I said I could.

"Then chip off a litde piece of ice and hold it to your finger. That will stop the hurt. Be careful when you use the ice pick," she admonished. "And don't cry. \ou'll be all right."

After that, I called Information Please for everything. I asked for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was, and the Orinoco—the romantic river I was going to explore when I grew up. She helped me with my arithmetic, and she told me that a pet chipmunk—I had caught him in the park just the day before—^would eat fruit and nuts.

And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary, died. I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled: Why was it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to whole families, only to end up as a heap of feathers feet up, on the bottom of a cage?

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quiedy, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."

Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was at the telephone. "Information," said the now familiar voice.

"How do you spell fix?" I asked. "Fix something? F-I-X."

At that instant my sister, who took unholy joy in scaring me, jumped off the stairs at me with a banshee shriek— "Yaaaaaaaaaa!" I fell off the stool, pulling the receiver out of the box by the roots. We were both terrified—Information Please was no longer there, and I was not at all sure that I hadn't hurt her when I pulled the receiver out.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Minutes later there was a man on the porch. "I'm a telephone repairman.. I was working down the street and the operator said there might be some trouble at this number." He reached for the receiver in my hand. "What happened?"

I told him.

"Well, we can fix that in a minute or two." He opened the telephone box, exposing a maze of wires and coils, and fiddled for a while with the end of the receiver cord, tightening things with a small screwdriver. He jiggled the hook up and down a few times, then spoke into the phone. "Hi, this is Pete. Everything's under control at 105. The kid's sister scared him and he pulled the cord out of the box."

He hung up, smiled, gave me a pat on the head and walked out the door.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then, when I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston—and I missed my mentor acutely. Information Please belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, skinny new phone that sat on a small table in the hall.

Yet as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me; often in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had when I knew that I could call Information Please and get the right answer. I appreciate now how very patient, understanding and kind she was to have wasted her time on a litde boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seatde. I had about half an hour between plane connections, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister who lived there now, happily mellowed by marriage and motherhood. Then, really without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please."

COMPASSION 21

Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear voice I knew so well: "Information."

I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me, please, how to spell the word Tix'?"

There was a long pause. Then came the softly spoken answer. "I guess," said Information Please, "that your finger must have healed by now."

I laughed. "So it's really still you. I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during all that time "

"I wonder," she replied, "if you know how much you meant to me? I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls. Silly, wasn't it?"

It didn't seem silly, but I didn't say so. Instead I told her how often I had thought of her over the years, and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister after the first semester was over.

"Please do. Just ask for Sally."

"Good-bye, Sally." It sounded strange for Information Please to have a name. "If I run into any chipmunks, I'll tell them to eat fruit and nuts."

"Do that," she said. "And I expect one of these days you'll be off for the Orinoco. Well, good-bye."

Just three months later I was back again at the SeatUe airport. A different voice answered, "Information," and I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?"

"\es," I said. "An old firiend."

"Then I'm sorry to have to tell you. Sally had only been working part-time in the last few years because she was ill. She died five weeks ago." But before I could hang up, she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Villiard?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down."

22 MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

"What was it?" I asked, almost knowing in advance what it would be.

"Here it is, I'll read it—'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean.'"

I thanked her and hung up. I did know what Sally meant.

FRAGRANCE

Happiness is a perfume you cannot pour on others without getting a few drops on yourself

George Bernard Shaw

COMPASSION 23

Beethoven s Gift

Philip Yancey

Astory is told about Beethoven, a man not known for social grace. Because of his deafness, he found conversation difficult and humiliating. When he heard of the death of a friend's son, Beethoven hurried to the house, overcome with grief. He had no words of comfort to offer. But he saw a piano in the room. For the next half hour he played the piano, pouring out his emotions in the most eloquent way he could. When he finished playing, he left. The friend later remarked that no one else's visit had meant so much.

Fm not so concerned you have fallen but that you rise.

Abraham Lincoln

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

At the Winter Feeder

John Leax

His feather flame doused dull

by ice and cold,

the cardinal hunched

into the rough, green feeder

but ate no seed.

Through binoculars I saw festered and useless his beak, broken at the root.

Then two: one blazing, one gray, rode the swirling weather into my vision and lighted at his side.

Unhurried, as if possessing the patience of God, they cracked sunflowers and fed him beak to wounded beak choice meats.

Each morning and afternoon

the winter long,

that odd triumvirate,

that trinity of need,

returned and ate

their sacrament

of broken seed.

COMPASSION 25

Lonesome

Author Unknown 1904

The boy sat huddled so close to the woman in gray that everybody felt sure he belonged to her; so when he unconsciously dug his muddy shoes into the broadcloth skirt of his left-hand neighbor she leaned over and said: "Pardon me, madam, will you kindly make your little boy square himself around? He is soiling my skirt with his muddy shoes."

The woman in gray blushed a little and nudged the boy away.

"My boy?" she said. "My goodness, he isn't mine."

The boy squirmed uneasily. He was such a litde fellow that he could not touch his feet to the floor, so he stuck them out straight in front of him like pegs to hang things on, and looked at them deprecatingly.

"I am sorry I got your dress dirty," he said to the woman on his left. "I hope it wall brush off."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," she said. Then, as his eyes were still fastened on hers, she added: "Are you going uptown alone?"

"\es, ma'am," he said. "I always go alone. There isn't anybody to go with me. Father is dead and mother is dead. I live wdth Aunt Clara in Brooklyn, but she says Aunt Anna ought to help do something for me, so once or twice a week, when she gets tired and wants to go some place to get rested up, she sends me over to stay with Aunt Anna. I am going up there now. Sometimes I don't find Aunt Anna home, but I hope she will be at home today, because it looks as if it is going to rain, and I don't like to hang around in the street in the rain."

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

The woman felt something uncomfortable in her throat, and she said: "\ou are a very little boy to be knocked about this way," rather unsteadily.

"Oh, I don't mind," he said. "I never get lost. But I get lonesome sometimes on the long trips, and when I see anybody that I think I would like to belong to I scrooge up close to her so I can make believe that I really do belong to her. This morning I was playing that I belonged to that lady on the other side of me, and I forgot all about my feet. That is why I got your dress dirty."

The woman put her arm around the tiny chap and "scrooged" him up so close that she almost hurt him, and every other woman who had heard his artless confidence looked as if she would not only let him wipe his shoes on her best gown, but would rather he did it than not.

MIND AND MEART

'And what is as important as kpowledge? " asked the mind — ''Caringy and seeing with the hearty " answered the soul

Author Unknown

COMPASSION 27

"Make Me Like Joe!"

Tony Campolo

Joe was a drunk who was miraculously converted at a Bowery mission. Prior to his conversion, he had gained the reputation of being a dirty wino for whom there was no hope, only a miserable existence in the ghetto. But following his conversion to a new life with God, everything changed. Joe became the most caring person that anyone associated with the mission had ever known. Joe spent his days and nights hanging out at the mission, doing whatever needed to be done. There was never anything that he was asked to do that he considered beneath him. Whether it was cleaning up the vomit left by some violently sick alcoholic or scrubbing toilets after careless men left the men's room filthy, Joe did what was asked wdth a smile on his face and a seeming gratitude for the chance to help. He could be counted on to feed feeble men who wandered off the street and into the mission, and to undress and tuck into bed men who were too out of it to take care of themselves.

One evening, when the director of the mission was delivering his evening evangelistic message to the usual crowd of still and sullen men with drooped heads, there was one man who looked up, came down the aisle to the altar, and knelt to pray, crying out for God to help him to change. The repentant drunk kept shouting, "Oh God! Make me like Joe! Make me like Joe! Make me like Joe! Make me like Joe!"

The director of the mission leaned over and said to the man, "Son, I think it would be better if you prayed, 'Make me like Jesus.

The man looked up at the director with a quizzical expression on his face and asked, "Is he like Joe?"

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Lady, Are You Rich?

Marion Doolan

They huddled inside the storm door—two children in ragged outgrown coats. "Any old papers, lady?" I was busy. I wanted to say no—until I looked down at their feet. Thin little sandals, sopped with sleet. "Come in and I'll make you a cup of hot cocoa." There was no conversation. Their soggy sandals left marks upon the hearthstone.

I served them cocoa and toast with jam to fortify against the chill outside. Then I went back to the kitchen and started again

on my household budget

The silence in the front room struck through to me. I looked in.

The girl held the empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy asked in a flat voice, "Lady.. .are you rich?"

"Am I rich? Mercy, no!" I looked at my shabby slip covers.

The girl put her cup back in its saucer—carefully. "\our cups match your saucers." Her voice was old, with a hunger that was not of the stomach.

They left then, holding their bundles of papers against the wind. They hadn't said thank you. They didn't need to. They had done more than that. Plain blue pottery cups and saucers. But they matched. I tested the potatoes and stirred the gravy. Potatoes and brown gravy, a roof over our heads, my man with a good steady job—these things matched, too.

I moved the chairs back from the fire and tidied the living room. The muddy prints of small sandals were still wet upon my hearth. I let them be. I want them there in case I ever forget cigain how very rich I am.

COMPASSION 29

To My Neighbor

Mother Teresa

One night a man came to our house and told me, "There is a family with eight children. They have not eaten for days." I took some food with me and went. When I finally came to that family, I saw the faces of those little children disfigured by hunger. There was no sorrow or sadness in their faces, just the deep pain of hunger.

I gave the rice to the mother. She divided the rice in two, and went out, carrying half the rice. When she came back, I asked her, "Where did you go?" She gave me this simple answer, "To my neighbors—they are hungry also!"

...I was not surprised that she gave, because poor people are really very generous. But I was surprised that she knew they were hungry. As a rule, when we are suffering, we are so focused on ourselves we have no time for others.

Real friends are those who, when you 've made a fool of yourself dont feel that you've done a permanent job.

Erwin T Randall

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

A Guy Named Bill

Rebecca Manley Pippert Retold by Alice Gray

is name is Bill. He has wild hair, wears a T-shirt with holes in it, jeans and no shoes. This was literally his wardrobe for his entire four years of college. He is brilliant. Kinda esoteric and very, very bright. He became a Christian while attending college. Across the street from the campus is a well-dressed, very conservative church. They want to develop a ministry to the students, but are not sure how to go about it.

One day Bill decides to go there. He walks in with no shoes, jeans, his T-shirt, and wild hair. The service has already started and so Bill starts down the aisle looking for a seat. The church is completely packed and he can't find a seat. By now people are looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one says anj^hing.

Bill gets closer and closer and closer to the pulpit and when he realizes there are no seats, he just squats down right on the carpet. (Although perfectly acceptable behavior at a college fellowship, trust me, this had never happened in this church before!) By now the people are really uptight, and the tension in the air is thick.

About this time, the minister realizes that fi:*om way at the back of the church, a deacon is slowly making his way toward Bill. Now the deacon is in his eighties, has silver-gray hair, a three-piece suit, and a pocket watch. A godly man—very elegant, very dignified, very courtly. He walks with a cane and as he starts walking toward this boy, everyone is saying to themselves. You cant blame him for what he's going to do. How can you expect a man of his age and of his background to understand some college kid on the floor?

COMPASSION 31

It takes a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church is utterly silent except for the clicking of the man's cane. All eyes are focused on him; you can't even hear anyone breathing. The people are thinking, The minister cant even preach the sermon until the deacon does what he has to do.

And now they see this elderly man drop his cane on the floor. With great difficulty he lowers himself and sits down next to Bill and worships with him so he won't be alone. Everyone chokes up with the emotion. When the minister gains control he says, "What I'm about to preach, you will never remember. What you have just seen, you will never forget."

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Autumn Dance *

Robin Jones Gunn

She stood a short distance from her guardian at the park this afternoon, her distinctive features revealing that although her body blossomed into young adulthood, her mind would always remain a child's. My children ran and jumped and sifted sand through perfect, coordinated fingers. Caught up in fighting over a shovel, they didn't notice when the wind changed. But she did. A wild autumn wind spinning leaves into amber flurries.

I called to my boisterous son and jostled my daughter. Time to go. Mom still has lots to do today. My rosy-cheeked boy stood tall, watching with wide-eyed fascination the gyrating dance of the Down's syndrome girl as she scooped up leaves and showered herself with a twirling rain of autumn jubilation.

With each twist and hop she sang deep, earthy grunts—a canticle of praise meant only for the One whose breath causes the leaves to tremble from the trees.

Hurry up. Let's go. Seat belts on? I start the ceu*. In the rearview mirror I study her one more time through misty eyes. And then the tears come. Not tears of pity for her. The tears are for me. For I am far too sophisticated to publicly shout praises to my Creator.

I am whole and intelligent and normal, and so I weep because I will never know the severe mercy that frees such a child and bids her come dance in the autumn leaves.

COMPASSION 33

To My Nurses

Author Unknown

What do you see, nurse, what do you see? Maybe you are thinking when you look at me: A crabbed old woman, not very wise. Uncertain of habit with faraway eyes. Who dribbles her food and makes no reply When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try"?

Who seems not to notice the things that you do

And forever is losing a stocking or shoes.

Who resisting or not, lets you do as you will

With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill.

Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse. You're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still.

As I move at your bidding, eat at your will,

I'm a small child of ten with father and mother.

Brothers and sisters who love one another;

A young girl of sixteen with wings on her feet.

Dreaming that soon a love she'll meet;

A bride at twenty, my heart gives a leap.

Remembering the vows that I promised to keep;

At twenty-five now I have young of my own

Who need me to build a secure, happy home.

A woman of thirty, my young now grow fast.

Bound together wdth ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons have grown up and gone.

But my man's beside me to see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more babies play round my knee—

Again we know children, my loved one and me.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Are You God?

Charles Swindoll

Shortly after World War II came to a close, Europe began picking up the pieces. Much of the Old Country had been ravaged by war and was in ruins. Perhaps the saddest sight of all was that of litde orphaned children starving in the streets of those war-torn cities.

Early one chilly morning, an American soldier was making his way back to the barracks in London. As he turned the corner in his jeep, he spotted a little lad with his nose pressed to the window of a pastry shop. Inside, the cook was kneading dough for a fresh batch of doughnuts. The hungry boy stared in silence, watching every move. The soldier pulled his jeep to the curb, stopped, got out, and walked quietly over to where the little fellow was standing. Through the steamed-up window he could see the mouth-watering morsels as they were being pulled from the oven, piping hot. The boy salivated and released a slight groan as he watched the cook place them onto the glass enclosed counter ever so carefully.

The soldier's heart went out to the nameless orphan as he stood beside him.

"Son.. .would you like some of those?" The boy was startled. "Oh, yeah...I would!"

The American stepped inside and bought a dozen, put them in a bag, and walked back to where the lad was standing in the foggy cold of the London morning. He smiled, held out the bag, and said simply: "Here you are."

As he turned to walk away, he felt a tug on his coat. He looked back and heard the child ask quietly, ''Mister.. .are you God?''

COMPASSION

Words Must Wait

Don't talk to me yet; the wound is fresh, the nauseous pain I can't forget fades into numbness hke a wave, then comes again. \bur tears I understand, But grief is deaf; It cannot hear the words you gently planned and tried to say.

Ruth Bell Graham

But...

pray....

Encouragement

TIE SECRET

Someday I hope to enjoy enough of what the world calls success so that somebody will ask ''What's the secret of it? " / shall say simply this: "/ get up when I fall down. "

Paul Harvey

ENCOURAGEMENT 43

Mr. Roth

Author Unknown

An old man showed up at the back door of the house we were renting. Opening the door a few cautious inches, we saw his eyes were glassy and his furrowed face glistened with silver stubble. He clutched a wicker basket holding a few unappealing vegetables. He bid us good morning and offered his produce for sale. We were uneasy enough to make a quick purchase to alleviate both our pity and our fear.

To our chagrin, he returned the next week, introducing himself as Mr. Roth, the man who lived in the shack down the road. As our fears subsided, we got close enough to realize that it wasn't alcohol, but cataracts, that marbleized his eyes. On subsequent visits, he would shuffle in, wearing two mismatched right shoes, and pull out a harmonica. With glazed eyes set on a future glory, he'd puff out old gospel tunes between conversations about vegetables and religion.

On one visit, he exclaimed, "The Lord is so good! I came out of my shack this morning and found a bag full of shoes and clothing on my porch."

"That's wonderful, Mr. Roth," we said. "We're happy for

you.

"Ybu know what's even more wonderful?" he asked. "Just yesterday I met some people that could use them."

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

/ Dont Believe a Word of It

Howard Hendricks

T]\ y the fifth grade, I was bearing all the firuit of a kid who 1-*^ feels insecure, unloved, and pretty angry at life. In other -AJ/ words, I was tearing the place apart. However, my teacher Miss Simon apparently thought that I was blind to this problem, because she regularly reminded me, "Howard, you are the worst behaved child in this school!"

So tell me something I dont already know! I thought to myself, as I proceeded to live up (or down) to her opinion of me....

Needless to say, the fifth grade was probably the worst year of my life. Finally I was graduated—for obvious reasons. But I left with Miss Simon's words ringing in my ears: "Howard, you are the worst behaved child in this school!"

\ou can imagine what my expectations were upon entering the sixth grade. The first day of class, my teacher. Miss Noe, went down the roll call, and it wasn't long before she came to my name. "Howard Hendricks," she called out, glancing from her list to where I was sitting v^th my arms folded, just waiting to go into action. She looked me over for a moment, and then said, "I've heard a lot about you." Then she smiled and added, "But I don't believe a word of it!"

I tell you, that moment was a fundamental turning point, not only in my education, but in my life. Suddenly, unexpectedly, someone believed in me. For the first time in my life, someone saw potential in me. Miss Noe put me on special assignments. She gave me little jobs to do. She invited me to come in after school to work on my reading and arithmetic. She challenged me with higher standards.

I had a hard time letting her down. In fact, one time I got

ENCOURAGEMENT 45

so involved in one of her homework assignments that I stayed up until 1:30 in the morning working on it! Eventually my father came down the hall and said, "What's the matter son?

"No, I'm doing my homework," I replied.

He kind of blinked and rubbed his eyes, not quite sure whether he was awake. He'd never heard me say anything like that before....

What made the difference between fifth grade and sixth? The fact that someone was willing to give me a chance. Someone was willing to believe in me while challenging me with higher expectations. That was risky, because there was no guarantee that I would honor Miss Noe's trust.

Everyone likes the end product of mentoring, especially when it yields a peak performer—the star athlete, the successful businessperson, the brilliant lawyer, the impressive communicator. But how many of us want to deal with the person at the fi'ont end of the process?

Are you sick?

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

A Perfect Pot of Tea

Roberta Messner

An impatient crowd of nearly 200 diehard bargain hunters shoved their way into the huge hving room of the old Withers' homestead. The sweltering 90-degree temperature didn't deter a single one, all in pursuit of the estate sale find of the summer.

The lady conducting the sale, a long-time acquaintance, nodded as we watched the early morning scavengers. "How's this for bedlam?" she chuckled.

I smiled in agreement. "I shouldn't even be here. I have to be at the airport in less than an hour," I admitted to her. "But when I was a teenager, I sold cosmetics in this neighborhood. And Hillary Withers was my favorite customer."

"Then run and check out the attic," she suggested. "There are plenty of old cosmetics up there."

Quickly, I squeezed through the ever-growing throng and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The attic was deserted except for a petite elderly woman presiding over several tables loaded with yellowed bags of all sizes.

"What brings you all the way up here?" she asked as she popped the stopper out of a perfume bottle. "There's nothing up here except old Avon, Tupperware, and Fuller Brush products."

I drew in a long, cautious breath. The unmistakable fragrance of "Here's My Heart" perfume transported me back nearly 20 years.

"Why, this is my own handwriting!" I exclaimed as my eyes fell upon an invoice stapled to one of the bags. The untouched sack held more than a hundred dollars' worth of creams and colognes. This had been my very first sale to Mrs. Withers.

ENCOURAGEMENT 47

On that long-ago June day, I'd canvassed the wide, tree-Hned avenue for nearly four hours, but not one lady-of-the-house had invited me inside. As I rang the bell at the last house, I braced myself for the now-familiar rejection.

"Hello, Ma'am, I'm your new Avon representative," I stammered, when the carved-oak door swung open. "I have some great products I'd like to show you." When my eyes finally found the courage to face the lady in the doorway, I realized it was Mrs. Withers, the bubbly, matronly soprano in our church choir. I'd admired her lovely dresses and hats, dreaming that someday I'd wear stylish clothes, too. Just two months before, when I'd traveled to a distant city to have brain surgery, Mrs. Withers had showered me with the most beautiful cards.

"Why, Roberta, dear, come in, come in," Mrs. Withers' voice sang out. "I need a million and one things. I'm so glad you came to see me."

Gingerly, I eased myself onto the spotless white sofa and unzipped my tweed satchel filled v^th all the cosmetic samples five dollars could buy. When I handed Mrs. Withers a sales brochure, suddenly I felt like the most important girl in the world.

"Mrs. Withers, we have two types of creams, one for ruddy skin tones and another for sallow skin," I explained with newfound confidence. "And they're great for wrinkles, too."

"Oh good, good," she chirped.

"Which one would you like to try?" I asked, adjusting the v^g hiding my stubbly surgery-scarred scalp.

"Oh, I'll surely need one of each," she answered. "And what do you have in the way of fragrances?"

"Here, try this one, Mrs. Withers. They recommend that you place it on the pulse point for the best effect," I instructed, pointing to her diamond-and-gold clad wrist.

"Why, Roberta, you're so knowledgeable about all of this.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

You must have studied for days. What an intelHgent young woman you arel"

"\ou really think so, Mrs. Withers?"

"Oh, I know so. And just what do you plan to do with your earnings?"

"I'm saving for college to be a registered nurse," I replied, surprised at my own words. "But today, I'm thinking more of buying my mother a cardigan sweater for her birthday. She always goes with me for my medical treatments, and when we travel on the train, a sweater would be nice for her."

"Wonderful, Roberta, and so considerate. Now what do you have in the gift line?" she asked, requesting two of each item I recommended.

Her extravagant order totaled $1 1 7.42. Had she meant to order so much? I wondered. But she smiled back and said, "I'll be looking forward to receiving my delivery, Roberta. Did you say next Tuesday?"

I was preparing to leave when Mrs. Withers said, "\bu look absolutely famished. Would you like some tea before you go? At our house, we think of tea as 'liquid sunshine. "

I nodded, then followed Mrs. Withers to her pristine kitchen, filled with all manner of curiosities. I watched, spellbound, as she orchestrated a tea party—^like I'd seen in the movies—just for me. She carefully filled the tea kettle with cold water, brought it to a "true" boil, then let the tea leaves steep for exactly five long minutes. "So the flavor will blossom," she explained.

Then she arranged a silver tray with a delicate china tea set, a chintz tea cozy, tempting strawberry scones, and other small splendors. At home, we sometimes drank iced tea in jelly glasses, but never had I felt like a princess invited to afternoon tea.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Withers, but isn't there a faster way to fix tea?" I asked. "At home, we use tea bags."

ENCOURAGEMENT 49

Mrs. Withers wrapped her arm around my shoulder. "There are some things in Hfe that shouldn't be hurried," she confided. "I've learned that brewing a proper pot of tea is a lot like living a proper life. It takes extra effort, but it's always worth it.

"Take you, for instance, with all of your health problems. Why, you're steeped with determination and ambition, just like a perfect pot of tea. Many people in your shoes would give up, but not you. You can accomplish anything you set your mind to, Roberta."

Abruptly, my journey back in time ended when the lady in the hot, sticky attic asked, "\ou knew Hillary Withers, too?"

I wiped a stream of perspiration fi*om my forehead. "\es... I once sold her some of these cosmetics. But I can't understand why she never used them or gave them away."

"She did give a lot of them away," the lady replied matter-of-factly. "But somehow, some of them got missed and ended up here."

"But why did she buy them and not use them?" I asked.

"Oh, she purchased a special brand of cosmetics for her own use." The lady spoke in a confidential whisper. "Hillary had a soft spot in her heart for door-to-door salespeople. She never turned any of them away. She used to tell me, *I could just give them money, but money alone doesn't buy self-respect. So I give them a little of my money, lend a listening ear, and share my love and prayers. You never know how far a litUe encouragement can take someone.'"

I paused, remembering how my cosmetic sales had soared after I'd first visited Mrs. Withers. I bought my mother the new sweater fi-om my commission on the sale, and I still had enough money for my college fund. I even went on to win several district and national cosmetics-sales awards. Eventually, I put myself through college with my own earnings and realized my

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

dream of becoming a registered nurse. Later, I earned a master's degree and a Ph.D.

"Mrs. Withers really cared for all of these people?" I asked, pointing to the dozens of time-worn delivery bags on the table.

"Oh, yes," she assured me. "She did it without the slightest desire that anyone would ever know."

I paid the cashier for my purchases—the sack of cosmetics I'd sold to Mrs. Withers, and a tiny, heart-shaped gold locket. I threaded the locket onto the gold chain I wore around my neck. Then I headed for the airport; later that afternoon I was addressing a medical convention in New \brk.

When I arrived in the elegant hotel ballroom, I found my way to the speaker's podium and scanned the sea of faces— health-care specialists from all over the country. Suddenly, I felt as insecure as on that long-ago day, peddling cosmetics in that unfamiliar, affluent neighborhood.

Can I do it? my mind questioned.

My trembling fingers reached upward to the locket. It opened, revealing a picture of Mrs. Withers inside. I again heard her soft but emphatic words: "\ou can accomplish anything you set your mind to, Roberta."

"Good afternoon," I began slowly. "Thank you for inviting me to speak about putting the care back in health care. It's often said that nursing is love made visible. But this morning I learned an unexpected lesson about the power of quiet love expressed in secret. The kind of love expressed not for show, but for the good it can do in the lives of others. Some of our most important acts of love often go unnoticed. Until they've had some time to steep—for their flavor to blossom."

Then I told my colleagues the story of Hillary Withers. Much to my surprise, there was thunderous applause. And to think, it all began with a perfect pot of tea!

ENCOURAGEMENT 51

Encouraging Words

Susan Maycinik

Could I speak to the manager?" My friend's sudden query to our waitress startled me. Our dinner at a popular pizza restaurant had seemed uneventful, and I wondered what Eileen was up to. The manager appeared at our table a few minutes later. "What can I do for you?" she asked hesitantly, as if she were expecting yet another reprimand from an angry customer.

"I just wanted you to know that our waitress tonight has really been exceptional," Eileen began. Then she described several things our server had done that impressed her.

The manager was obviously relieved—and delighted. So was the waitress, who was standing nearby. The four of us laughed and chatted for a few minutes. Eileen had made the day of two hard-working women...and left an indelible impression on me of the power of positive words.

When we think about our words, it's easy to focus on the ones we'd like to retrieve. Fortunately, however, there are certain phrases that are aJmost eJways the right thing to say—^words that communicate love and encouragement. Here are a few: "Y)u do that really well." "May I pray for you right now?" "How are you, really?" "What you said helped me." "I was wrong."

"Thanks for leading/serving." "Have I offended you?"

"I appreciate the way you ."

"What can I do to help?"

"Tell me about your day, job, kids...."

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

"Please forgive me." "I still love you."

"God is big enough to

"I'm proud of you." "\buVe really growing." "Please come over for dinner." "I missed you." "I'm so happy for you." "I prayed for you today." "That must be very difficult." "I'll be glad to!"

In short, if there are v^ords you'd like to hear, it's a good bet they would encourage others, too.

GOD'S PLANS

"For / k^ow the plans I have for you, " declares the Lord, ''plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek and find me when you seek with all your heart. "

Jeremiah 29:1 1-13

ENCOURAGEMENT 53

Three Letters From Teddy

Elizabeth Silance Ballard

Teddy's letter came today and now that I've read it, I will place it in my cedar chest with the other things that are important to my life. "I wanted you to be the first to know." I smiled as I read the words he had written and my heart swelled with a pride that I had no right to feel.

I have not seen Teddy Stallard since he was a student in my fifth grade class fifteen years ago. It was early in my career, and I had only been teaching for two years.

From the first day he stepped into my classroom, I disliked Teddy. Teachers (although everyone knows differently) are not supposed to have favorites in a class, but most especially are they not to show dislike for a child, any child.

Nevertheless, every year there are one or two children that one cannot help but be attached to, for teachers are human, and it is human nature to like bright, pretty, intelligent people, whether they are ten years old or twenty-five. And sometimes, not too often, fortunately, there will be one or two students to whom the teacher just can't seem to relate.

I had thought myself quite capable of handling my personal feelings along that line until Teddy walked into my life. There wasn't a child I particularly liked that year, but Teddy was most assuredly the one I disliked.

He was dirty. Not just occasionally, but all the time. His hair hung low over his ears, and he actually had to hold it out of his eyes as he wrote papers in class. (And this was before it was fashionable to do so!) Too, he had a peculiar odor about him which I could never identify.

His physical faults were many, and his intellect left a lot to

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

be desired, also. By the end of the first week I knew he was hopelessly behind the others. Not only was he behind; he was just plain slow! I began to withdraw firom him immediately.

Any teacher will tell you that it's more of a pleasure to teach a bright child. It is definitely more rewarding for one's ego. But any teacher worth her credentials can channel work to the bright child, keeping him challenged and learning, while she puts her major effort on the slower ones. Any teacher can do this. Most teachers do it, but I didn't, not that year. ^

In fact, I concentrated on my best students and let the others follow along as best they could. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I took perverse pleasure in using my red pen; and each time I came to Teddy's paper, the cross marks (and there were many) were always a little larger and a little redder than necessary.

"Poor work!" I would write with a flourish. !

While I did not actually ridicule the boy, my attitude was obviously quite apparent to the class, for he quickly became the class "goat," the outcast: the unlovable and the unloved.

He knew I didn't like him, but he didn't know why. Nor did I know—then or now—why I felt such an intense dislike for him. All I know is that he was a little boy no one cared about, and I made no effort on his behalf.

The days rolled by. We made it through the Fall Festival and the Thanksgiving holidays, and I continued marking happily with my red pen.

As the Christmas holidays approached, I knew that Teddy I would never catch up in time to be promoted to the sixth grade level. He would be a repeater.

To justify myself, I went to his cumulative folder from time to time. He had very low grades for the first four years, but no grade failure. How he had made it, I didn't know. I closed my mind to the personal remarks.

First grade: Teddy shows promise by work and attitude, but |

ENCOURAGEMENT 55

has poor home situation. Second grade: Teddy could do better. Mother terminally ill. He receives litde help at home. Third grade: Teddy is a pleasant boy. Helpful, but too serious. Slow learner. Mother passed away end of the year. Fourth grade: Vfery slow, but well behaved. Father shows no interest.

Well, they had passed him four times, but he will certainly repeat fifth grade! Do him good! I said to myself.

And then the last day before the holiday arrived. Our litde tree on the reading table sported paper and popcorn chains. Many gifts were heaped underneath, waiting for the big moment.

Teachers always get several gifts at Christmas, but mine that year seemed bigger and more elaborate than ever. There was not a student who had not brought me one. Each unwrapping brought squeals of delight, and the proud giver would receive effusive thank-yous.

His gift wasn't the last one I picked up; in fact it was in the middle of the pile. Its wrapping was a brown paper bag, and he had colored Christmas trees and red bells all over it. It was stuck together with masking tape.

"For Miss Thompson, from Teddy ' it read.

The group was completely silent and for the first time I felt conspicuous, embarrassed because they all stood watching me unwrap the gift.

As I removed the last bit of masking tape, two items fell to my desk: a gaudy rhinestone bracelet with several stones missing and a small bottle of dime-store cologne—half empty.

I could hear the snickers and whispers, and I wasn't sure I could look at Teddy.

"Isn't this lovely?" I asked, placing the bracelet on my wnst. "Teddy, would you help me fasten it?"

He smiled shyly as he fixed the clasp, and I held up my wrist for all of them to admire.

56 MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

There were a few hesitant ooh's and ahh's, but as I dabbed the cologne behind my ears, all the little girls lined up for a dab behind their ears.

I continued to open gifts until I reached the bottom of the pile. We ate our refreshments, and the bell rang.

The children filed out with shouts of "See you next year!" and "Merry Christmas!" but Teddy waited at his desk.

When they had all left, he walked up to me, clutching his gift and books to his chest.

"\ou smell just like my mom," he said softly. "Her bracelet looks real pretty on you too. I'm glad you liked it."

He left quickly. I locked the door, sat down at my desk, and wept, resolving to make up to Teddy what I had deliberately deprived him of—a teacher who cared.

I stayed every afternoon with Teddy from the end of Christmas holidays until the last day of school. Sometimes we worked together. Sometimes he worked alone while I drew up lesson plans or graded papers.

Slowly but surely he caught up with the rest of the class. In fact, his final averages were among the highest in the class, and although I knew he would be moving out of the state when school was out, I was not worried for him. Teddy had reached a level that would stand him in good stead the following year, no matter where he went. He had enjoyed a measure of success, and as we were taught in our teacher training courses, "Success builds success."

I did not hear from Teddy until seven years later, when his first letter appeared in my mailbox.

Dear Miss Thompson.

I just wanted you to be the first to k.now, I will he graduating second in my class next month.

Very Truly Yours, Teddy Stallard

ENCOURAGEMENT 57

I sent him a card of congratulations and a small package, a pen and pencil gift set. I wondered what he would do after graduation.

Four years later, Teddy 's second letter came.

Dear Miss Thompson,

I wanted you to be the first to know. I was just informed that Vll he graduating first in my class. The university has not been easy, but I liked it.

Very Truly Yours, Teddy Stallard

I sent him a good pair of sterling silver monogrammed cuff links and a card, so proud of him I could burst! And now today—Teddy's third letter.

Dear Miss Thompson,

I wanted you to be the first to know. As of today I am Theodore Stallard, MD. How about that!!??

Vm going to be married in July, the 27th, to be exact. I wanted to ask if you could come and sit where Mom would sit if she were here. Til have no family there as Dad died last year.

Very Truly Yours, Teddy Stallard

I'm not sure what kind of gift one sends to a doctor on completion of medical school and state boards. Maybe I'll just wait and take a wedding gift, but a note can't wait.

Dear Ted,

Congratulations! You made it, and you did it yourself!! In spite of those like me and not because of us, this day has come for you.

Cod bless you. Til be at the wedding with bells on!

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

The Comfort of a Cold, Wet Nose

Barbara Baumgardner

Ihadn't even wanted the dog in the first place! My husband insisted I get him to replace the dog that had died recently. Soon, he was "my dog," a fi-iend and faithful companion; not asking for any more than I was willing to give—a daily meal, a kind word, a warm bed.

But not my bed! No dogs allowed on my bed. The night after my husband died, I lay there, staring into the darkness, my pillow soppy wet with the unending flow of tears. The bed seemed so big all by myself and I was wondering how long it takes for a good case of "loneliness" to heal when I first felt it move. It was cold and clammy and creeping at a very slow pace into my open hand outside the covers. The solidified jelly-like mass was followed by prickly hairs and just before I screamed, a muffled but familiar whine came from the creature that was forcing its cold, wet nose into my trembling hand.

"Oh, Shawn! What are you doing on my bed?" I threw my arms around his thick hairy neck and hugged and hugged.

In the days and months to follow, I came to realize that this dog I hadn't wanted was a gift of love from God. He was a warm fuzzy on my bed every night; a companion always willing, wagging, and available to go for a walk when I needed to get out of the house. Tvice, he snapped at me as I wailed loudly and out of control, as if to reprimand me to be strong and of good courage.

Shawn taught me all about love and acceptance and forgiveness. That crazy dog loves me just as I am. And so IVe learned to be a warm fuzzy to those around me who are hurting

ENCOURAGEMENT 59

and to approach them gently, loving them just as they are. Like my dog curled up by the warm fire, I just want to be there in case I'm needed. I thank God for providing a firiend when I felt alone, and for the comfort of a cold, wet nose.

ANDTMISJOO...

// is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence, to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations.

They presented him the words: ''And this, too, shall pass away. "

How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride —

how consoling in the depth of affliction!

Abraham Lincoln

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Giving and Receiving

Billie Davis

Apublic school teacher made clear to me the complex ideas of giving and receiving. Evidently she noticed something about the way I held the book in reading class and arranged for an eye examination. She did not send me to a clinic; she took me to her own oculist, not as a charity case but as a friend. Indeed, I was so intrigued with the activity that I did not realize exactly what had happened until one day at school she gave me the glasses.

"I can't take them. I can't pay for them," I said, embarrassed by my family's poverty.

She told me a story: "When I was a child, a neighbor bought glasses for me. She said I should pay for them someday by getting glasses for some other little girl. So, you see, the glasses were paid for before you were born."

Then the teacher said the most welcome words that anyone had ever said to me: "Someday you will buy glasses for some other little girl."

She saw me as a giver. She made me responsible. She believed I might have something to offer to someone else. She accepted me as a member of the same world she lived in. I walked out of that room, clutching the glasses, not as a recipient of charity, but as a trusted courier.

ENCOURAGEMENT 61

Teacher Dan

Marilyn McAuley

Mi, teacher Dan!" chorus a roomful of preschoolers. Dan is a grandfatherly figure with his silver hair, a round smiling face, and blue eyes that reveal a gentle nature. He smiles and greets the children. Twice a week he visits their school briefly on his way to another classroom.

He walks through the garage-turned-preschool into the house and down the hall. He stops at an open door. It's a classroom without blackboards or brightly trimmed bulletin boards. There are no rows of desks and no school bell. Instead, it's a spare bedroom with a large computer desk, a new computer, two chairs, and a sofa.

His student, Jason, is seated at his computer. The dark wavy hair bounces as Jason's whole body impersonates the gyrations of a favorite rock star. Long fingers pound an imaginary piano as he listens to his music. Dan waits.

Jason is a neat kid. Many would say life hasn't been fair to him. For most of his eighteen years, Jason has been afflicted with seizures. As puberty set in, they increased so in firequency and intensity that he must be tutored at home. His speech is slow and measured. He walks unsteadily. His ability to move his thoughts into words is slowed by the ailment gripping his brain.

A retired special education teacher, Dan still spends two days a week tutoring Jason, who is now a junior in high school and taller than his six-foot teacher. Jason's strong angular jaw line firames a handsome face. He's a tease and enjoys telling jokes. He also has a clear understanding of right and wrong, and his faith in God is strong.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Jason's movements are a bit jerky as he turns to see Dan. They both have* an unspoken hope that Jason will get through the ninety-minute class without a seizure.

In his deep, quiet voice he greets his teacher. "Hi, D-an."

"How are you doing today?" Dan asks.

"Gr-eat. I mi-ss-ed you la-st ti-me. Tm g-lad you are w-ell now."

"I would rather have been here than home nursing a cold." "C-olds are a-ppall-ing."

"Great, Jason. Tm glad to see you are using your vocabulary words. I think 'appalling' is one of your favorites, isn't it?" Jason grinned. "I like a-ppall-ing." "Well, shall we get started?"

As any teenager would do, Jason stalls for time. "Did you kn-ow they are-n't ma-k-ing ba-na-nas any long-er?"

"Aw Jason, what do you mean they aren't making bananas any longer—why not?"

Jason laughs and slaps the table. "Be-cau-se, they are 1-ong e-nough." He grabs his small towel and v^pes a drool from his mouth. His eyes are bright as he watches Dan enjoy the joke.

"\bu did it again, Jason. I really fell for that one." Dan is so proud of Jason being able to tell the joke and get the punch line right.

After reviewing current events, Jason must write three statements about their discussion. Time passes...five minutes...ten. Nothing happens.

Dan waits.

Looking at Jason's bowed head he says, "Jason, are you thinking about what you want to write?" He doesn't answer but raises his head and looks at the keyboard. Slowly he begins a word. After twenty-five minutes, he has typed his three sentences. Not compound sentences—just simple ones of five to ten words.

ENCOURAGEMENT 63

Dan listens as Jason reads them back to him. They talk about the changes that could be made. Jason doesn't like to make errors. He tries so hard to be perfect. His mind is alert, it just takes him time to pull his thoughts and words together. Only one word is corrected. They give a high-five. It's a good day.

"Let's look at your homework."

"Ho-me-wor-k is a-ppall-ing!"

"I think you've got that word down perfect."

After lessons, Jason gets to pick an educational computer game to challenge Dan. Again, Jason wins.

"D-an, you h-ave bee-n tea-ching me for al-mo-st two yea-rs."

This is significant for Jason. Dan has brought solidarity into Jason's life—something he needed after having four teachers come and go in one year.

The ninety minutes are up. Dan asks, "What is your homework assignment for Thursday?"

"A-ppall-ing math." They laugh.

Dan picks up his briefcase and Jason follows him to the door.

"I'll see you Thursday." "B-ye D-an."

Jason stands at the door and waves. He enjoys his time v^th Dan because he's treated with dignity and respect.

Dan puts the briefcase in the back seat. As he turns around, Jason is coming toward him. The cold misty rain dampens his T-shirt.

"Jason, be careful," Dan cautions with deliberate calm. "Take it slow—don't fall." Jason has just healed from surgery for a broken jaw—the result of a fall.

Jason keeps coming so Dan walks toward him.

He throws his arms around Dan and gives him a big hug.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Jason has never shown such deep feeHngs. Dan returns the hug and gently guides him back to the house. Heading back to the car Dan hears, "11-ove you, D-an!"

Teacher Dan drives away. Tears moisten the corners of his eyes. If Jason had been his only student, it was well worth becoming a teacher.

Faith is... Remembering I am God's priceless treasure when I feel utterly worthless.

Pamela Reeve

ENCOURAGEMENT 65

The Mender

Ruth Bell Graham

e had built for himself a great house on one of the

Caribbean islands. It is a thing to behold. Tall rusty

JJ_J_L iron columns, collected and resurrected with an ingenious homemade device. This Great House is a masterpiece of salvaged materials.

A collector and seller of scrap metal as w^ell as antiques, he was also fascinated with broken bits and pieces of china dug from his front yard. His friends, John and June Cash, laughingly remarked it was the first time they had heard of a yard sale where the man had sold the yard itself. Carefully he fitted and glued the pieces together. Few ever came out whole. They remained simply a collection of one who cared.

When I expressed interest, he gave me a blue-and-white plate, carefully glued together—pieces missing.

"You remind me of God," I said. By the look on his face, I knew I shocked him, and I hurriedly explained.

"God pieces back broken lives lovingly. Sometimes a piece is irretrievably lost. But still He gathers what He can and restores us."

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Long Range Vision

Howard Hendricks

As a boy I loved to wander over to a nearby park and watch the older men play checkers. One day one of them invited me to play. At first it looked easy. I captured one, then another of his checkers. But then, suddenly, he took one checker and hopped and skipped right across the board to the border and yelled, "King me!" With that king, he proceeded to wipe me off the board.

That day I learned about long-range vision. No one minds losing a few checkers if he's headed for king territory.

There are no hopeless situations in life... only men who have grown hopeless about them.

A Barclay Comment

ENCOURAGEMENT 67

The Red Coat

Melody Carlson

The colors of the quilt squares and triangles are poured across her lap like jewels. Patches of golds, greens, and reds. She runs her hand over a block of garnet-red wool, and smiles. That's exactly the color of faith.

* * *

It was a cold windy day, with winter nipping at the heels of fall. She picked up Abby from grade school and they rode the city bus downtown. Abby was bundled in a hand-me-down coat from her cousin, Linda Sue. It was in perfect shape with a rabbit fur collar, and hardly worn. They hopped off the bus and she held Abby's hand as they dashed across the street. The wind whipped up a piece of newspaper and cut right through her thin brown coat—the same coat she'd gotten just before the war. Styles had changed a lot since then, with hemlines going up and down like an elevator. Now there wasn't enough of the coat left to alter one more time and her full skirt peeked out from beneath it like a dust ruffle.

John had been home since September and the only job he'd been able to secure was as a janitor at the hospital. He hoped to start night school in January, education seemed to be the ticket to a better job. Lately he'd scrimped and saved, and just that morning handed over twelve dollars saying, "Now, you go over to Harricks and find yourself a good winter coat." She'd agreed, thinking it would be a challenge to find much of a coat for twelve dollars. She knew he meant well, but it might've been better to put the money under the mattress for a rainy day. Lord knew they'd had plenty of those.

She and Abby entered Harricks and suddenly she remembered how she used to shop there with her mother, back when

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

money flowed freely, before she'd married John against the wishes of her family. Now the shop seemed like a foreign land, and she felt like an intruder.

"May I help you?" asked a plump woman straightening gloves upon the counter.

"No thank you, I just want to look around a bit." No use telling her she was looking for a coat, with only twelve dollars in her purse. The woman might laugh.

She walked through the store, pretending to observe the many pretty things. Abby pointed out a bright peacock blue evening dress. "That would look nice on you, Mommy." She stroked her daughter's sleek brown hair, the same color as her own, and smiled. Finally they reached the back of the store and she turned around, ready to give up. Relief mixed with disappointment. But there nestled in the corner was a rack with various items and a sign that proclaimed, "sale." She glanced at the rack and something red caught her eye. It turned out to be a wool coat in a lovely shade of red, just the color of garnets. She carefully removed the hanger from the rack and searched the coat for a price tag. But surely, even on sale, it would cost too much.

"Mommy, the tag says twelve dollars!" Abby triumphantly held up the sleeve with the bright yellow tag. "\ou can get it. Mommy, that's just the right price."

"Oh, that can't possibly be right. It's much too nice. There must be some mistake."

"Try it on. Mommy. See if it fits." Abby tugged at the sleeve of her old coat.

"It's probably not even my size." But in the same moment, she laid dovm her old coat and slipped into the red coat. She couldn't explain why, but it felt like honey. It was delicious.

"It's perfect. Mommy. And it's beautiful! You look like a princess." Abby pushed her toward the mirror. It looked fine.

ENCOURAGEMENT 69

probably too fine. And perhaps the red, though lovely, was too bright for a woman almost thirty. She hung the coat back on the hanger, then held it at arm's length to study it again. It was a nice design with bound button holes and large abalone buttons. Even the lining was smooth heavy satin—that's why it felt like honey.

"Are you going to buy it. Mommy?"

"Oh, I don't know, Abby. I think there's a mistake. This is a very well-made coat. The price tag can't be right. Coats like this don't end up on the clearance rack, especially in November."

"It says twelve dollars, it must be right." Abby folded her arms and tapped her size two shoe v^th impatience. "Daddy said you're supposed to get a coat. Now you better get it."

She smiled down at Abby, then laid the coat over her arm and headed for the counter. An elderly woman was being waited on. The sales clerk carefully placed a brovm felt hat with a long black feather into a hat box and rang up the price. The cash register jingled as the tray popped open.

"That'll be thirty-two dollars," announced the clerk, and the woman wrote out a check without even blinking. She picked up her pretty box and bid the clerk good day.

"Can I help you?" asked the clerk sweetly. Her hand was extended as she reached expectantly for the coat.

"No, I uh, I think I'd like to look around just a little more." She stepped back and studied the coat again. The price tag was a mistake. If a silly hat sold for thirty-two dollars, how could this beautiful coat be twelve?

"What are you doing. Mommy?" complained Abby as she followed her back to the sales rack.

"Honey, I just know it's a mistake. You can't buy a coat like this for twelve dollars. There's no point in even asking. We'll just look silly."

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

"But the tag says—"

"Shhh, honey^ don't make a scene." She looked around. Several other shoppers were close by now. She recognized Lily Andrews from church. She was new in town and her husband was a doctor. Mrs. Andrews smiled their way, and moved toward the sales rack. It seemed strange that someone so well off would be interested in clearance items. Her hand paused on the red coat and she pulled it from the rack.

"May I help you?" asked the clerk.

"What a lovely coat. And only twelve dollars?"

"That's right. It was from last year; someone returned it in July if you can believe that. A woman kept it all winter and never wore it. She never even took the tags off. The store owner just wanted to get rid of this coat since it doesn't fit with the new line up in front. It's quite a bargain—"

She couldn't hear any more. She took Abby's hand and quickly led her out.

"But Mommy, that's your coa—"

"Shh, honey—"

Tears stung her eyes as the wand blew even colder outside. It was still too early for the return bus, but they setded down on the bus stop bench to wait anyway. They huddled together for warmth.

"Why didn't you get your coat, Mommy?" Abby's voice was sad.

"I don't know, honey...."

How could she tell her it was because she was foolish? And not only was she foolish, she was too proud to ask. How could she explain to John that their eight-year-old daughter had more sense than she did. She shivered. She deserved another winter in her old worn out coat. That would teach her a lesson!

"Excuse me," called a voice. She looked up to see Lily Andrews.

ENCOURAGEMENT 71

"Yes?"

"I know this is going to sound very strange. And believe me I don't usually do things like this, but I just got the strongest impression to give you this. I have no idea w^hy—" She thrust the package toward them.

"I don't understand—"

"Neither do I. But it's as if God told me to do this. I know it's very strange, you probably think I'm crazy—"

"It is strange." She peeked in the bag. "I almost bought this coat just a few minutes ago. Please let me pay you for it." She grabbed eagerly for her purse.

"No, that's just it. I got the impression I was to give it to you. You cannot pay me for it. I'm sorry. I must sound like a mad woman...." Her face was red, and tears were in her eyes.

"But I can't take this, it's like charity."

"No, it's not charity. Go ahead and give your money to someone who needs it if you like. But I know I'm supposed to give this to you. I'm sorry if I sound nutty, maybe I'm just lonely, but it's the first time I ever thought I heard God tell me to do something. You have to let me do it. Think of it as a gift from God. Like faith."

* * *

That was over four decades ago. She'd worn the coat for many winters. Finally it was so out of style that even Abby pleaded vsath her to give it up, but she could never bring herself to part with it. It had been packed in a trunk for ages, and she'd only thought of it last week when Dr. Andrews passed away and she wanted to do something special for her firiend Lily. Now she was carefully cutting the pieces into a lap quilt for her good fiiend. She hoped it might be a comfort and a reminder that faith can be found in small things like red wool coats, and friendships that endure throughout time.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

The Young Widow

Alice Gray

Mer husband died suddenly in an accident and she was left to raise her two sons alone. At first she was surrounded by compassionate and caring friends. They brought meals, sent cards, made phone calls, prayed. And then the weeks turned into months, and it seemed like all the world had forgotten. She longed to hear her husband's name mentioned in conversation, she longed to talk about the wide stride of his walk, the warmth of his easy laugh, and how his hand had felt so strong in hers. She wanted the neighbors to come and borrow his tools or have a grown man shoot basketballs with her sons.

It was early on the morning of the first anniversary of his death. The dew was still wet on the grass as she walked across the cemetery lawn. And then she saw it, laying next to his gravestone. Someone had been there even before her and left a small bouquet of fresh cut flowers, tied with a ribbon. A gentle caring act that reached out to her lonely heart like a tender hug. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she read the unsigned note. The three words said simply, "I remember, too."

ENCOURAGEMENT 73

MichaeVs Story Begins at Age Six

Charlotte Elmore

In desperation, I asked if he could be retested. She shook her head and said no. In an attempt to show her just how "normal" Michael really was, I began telling her about all the things that Michael did well. But she brushed my comments aside and stood up, dismissing me. "Michael will be all right," she said.

Later that evening, after Michael and his three-year-old sister, Linda, were in bed, I tearfully told Frank what I had learned that day. After talking it over, we agreed that we knew our son much better than an IQ test. We decided that Michael's low score must have been a mistake.

Like me, Frank could not believe that our son was "nearly retarded." Instead, he told me about some of the things Michael

recendy had done that he felt proved Michael was intelligent

He said that one night Michael showed an interest in the blueprint sketches he was working on, so he found Michael's set of odd-shaped blocks and quickly sketched two-dimensional drawings of each of them. Frank then asked Michael to match each block with its corresponding drawing. Frank said he was pleased vsdth how easily Michael made things with his toy construction sets from the diagrams diat came with the toys.

We moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana, in 1962, and Michael entered Concordia Lutheran High School. His grades warranted his selecting college preparatory courses, including biology, Latin, and algebra—the subject we had been told, when he was back in first grade, he would never be able to handle. Biology soon became his favorite subject. He started telling everyone he was going to be a doctor.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Michael entered Indiana University at Bloomington in 1965 as a premedical student. By midyear, with a 3.47 grade point average, he had made the dean's Hst, and his faculty counselor gave him special permission to take more than the recommended number of course hours. He earned enough credits to be accepted into the Indiana University School of Medicine in Indianapolis at the end of his junior year in college.

During his first year at medical school, Michael took another IQ test and scored 126, an increase of 36 points. An increase like that w^as supposed to be impossible.

On graduation day. May 21, 1972, Frank, Linda, and I attended the ceremony and hugged our Dr. Mike! After the ceremony, we told Michael and Linda about the low IQ score Michael had received when he was six—as we had planned to do all along. At first, both of them thought we were joking. Since that day, Michael sometimes will look at us and say with a big grin, "My parents never told me that I couldn't be a doctor—that is, not until after I graduated from medical school!" It's his way of thanking us for the faith we had in him.

It has been said that children often live up to what adults expect of them—tell a child he is "dumb" and he may play the part. We often wonder what would have happened if we had treated Michael as "nearly retarded" and imposed a limit on his dreams.

ENCOURAGEMENT 75

Come in Together

Stu Weber

e'd been running every day, but this was something else. We'd been sweating from the time we rolled out of the rack before daybreak, but now moisture drained from every pore in our bodies. Sure, this was the physical training stage of U.S. Army Ranger school, and we expected exertion. Even exhaustion. But this was no morning PT rah-rah run in T-shirts.

We ran in full field uniform. As usual, the word was "\ou go out together, you stick together, you work as a unit, and you come in together. If you don't come in together, don't bother to come in!"

Somewhere along the way, through a fog of pain, thirst, and fatigue, my brain registered something strange about our formation. Two rows ahead of me, I noticed one of the guys out of sync.

A big, rawboned redhead named Sanderson. His legs were pumping, but he was out of step with the rest of us. Then his head began to loll fi:*om side to side. This guy was struggling. Close to losing it.

Without missing a step, the Ranger on Sanderson's right reached over and took the distressed man's rifle. Now one of the Rangers was packing two weapons. His own and Sanderson's. The big redhead did better for a time. But then, while the platoon kept moving. His jaw became slack, his eyes glazed and his legs pushed like pistons. Soon his head began to sway again.

This time, the Ranger on the left reached over, removed Sanderson's helmet, tucked it under his own arm, and continued to run. All systems go. Our boots thudded along the dirt

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

trail in heavy unison. Tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp-tromp.

Sanderson was hurting. Really hurting. He was buckling, going down. But no. Two soldiers behind him lifted the pack off his back, each taking a shoulder strap in his free hand. Sanderson gathered his remaining strength. Squared his shoulders. And the platoon continued to run. All the way to the finish line.

We left together. We returned together. And all of us were the stronger for it. Together is better.

Life is teaching you some painful lessons. But it is from adversity that strength is born. You may have lost the inning, hut I kj^ow you 7/ win the game.

from P.S.I Love You

ENCOURAGEMENT 77

First Things

Tony Campolo

hen I was a kid growing up, I knew a man who loomed bigger than Hfe to me. His name was Edwin E. Bailey, and he ran the astronomical observatory at the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia. I would go to the Franklin Institute most Saturdays just to spend time with him. His encyclopedic mind fascinated me. He seemed to know something about everything.

I was friends with Ed Bailey right up until he died several years ago. When he was in the hospital, after a serious stroke, I went to visit him. In an effort to make small talk, I told about all the places I had been to speak and how I had come to his bedside right from the airport.

He heard me out and then said with a slightly sarcastic manner, "\bu go all over the world to people who, ten years from now, won't remember your name. But you haven't left time for the people who really care about you."

That simple sentence hit me hard and changed my life. I have decided not to let my time be used up by people to whom I make no difference, while I neglect those for whom I am irreplaceable.

A friend of mine recently got a call from the White House asking him to consult with the President of the United States. He said no because it was to be on a day he had promised to spend with his granddaughter at the seashore. The nation survived without him, the President didn't miss him, and his granddaughter had some precious time with her "Pop-Pop." First things ought to be put first.

Virtue

FORGIVENESS

Forgiveness is like the violet Sending forth its pure fragrance On the heel of the boot Of the one who crushed it.

Author Unknown

VIRTUE 81

These Things I Wish for You

Paul Harvey

e tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse. For my grandchildren, I'd know better. I'd really like for them to know about hand-me-down clothes and homemade ice cream and leftover meat loaf. I really would.

My cherished grandson, I hope you learn humility by being humiliated and that you learn honesty by being cheated.

I hope you learn to make your bed and mow the lawn and wash the car—and I hope nobody gives you a brand-new car when you are ] 6.

And I hope you have a job by then.

It will be good if at least one time you can see a baby calf born and see your old dog put to sleep.

I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.

I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother. And it is all right to draw a line down the middle of the room, but—when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he's scared—I hope you'll let him.

And when you want to see a Disney movie and your kid brother wants to tag along I hope you take him.

I hope you have to walk uphill with your friends and that you live in a town where you can do it safely.

And rainy days when you have to hitch a ride I hope j^our driver doesn't have to drop you two blocks away so you won't be seen riding with somebody as uncool as your mom.

If you want a slingshot I hope your father teaches you how to make one instead of buy one. I hope you learn to dig in the

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

dirt and read books, and when you learn to use those newfangled computers; you also learn how to add and subtract in your head.

I hope you get razzed by friends when you have your first crush on a girl, and that when you talk back to your mother I hope you learn what Ivory soap tastes like.

May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on the stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.

I hope you get sick when some stupid old person blows cigar smoke in your face. I don't care if you try beer once, but I hope you won't like it. And if a friend offers you a joint or any dope I hope you are smart enough to realize he is not your friend.

I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your grandpa or go fishing with your uncle. May you feel sorrow at a funeral and the joy of holidays.

I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through a neighbor's window and that she hugs you and kisses you at Christmas time, when you give her a plaster of Paris mold of your hand.

These things I wish for you—tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness.

VIRTUE 83

Why Fm a Sports Mom

Judy Bodmer

It's a Saturday in May. I could be home, curled up on the couch with a good mystery. Instead I'm sitting on a cold metal bench in the stands of a baseball park. An icy wind creeps through my winter jacket. I blow on my hands wishing I'd brought my woolen mittens.

"Mrs. Bodmer?" It's my son's coach. "I thought you'd like to know. We're going to start your son today in right field. He's worked hard this year. We think he deserves the opportunity."

"Thanks," I say feeling proud of my son who has given this man and this team everything he has. I know how bad he wants to start. I'm glad his hard work is being rewarded.

Suddenly I'm nervous for him. I go to the concession stand and buy hot chocolate. Back in my seat I hold it between my hands blowing the steam into my face for warmth.

The team, in their white and blue pinstripe uniforms, struts onto the field. They all look so much alike. I search for my son's number. It isn't there. Instead, Eddie takes right field. I look again, unbelieving. \es, it's Eddie, the most inexperienced player on the team. How can that be? I glance at the coach, but he's absorbed in the game. I want to run over and ask what's going on, but I know my son wouldn't like that. Over the last eight years I've learned the proper etiquette for moms, and talking to the coach during the game is definitely not acceptable.

My son grips the chain link fence, which protects the bench fi*om stray balls, and yells encouragement to his teammates. I try to read his nonverbals, but I know he has learned, like most men, to hide his feelings from the world.

My heart breaks. So much hard work, so much disappointment. I don't understand what drives young boys to put themselves through this.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

"Atta boy, Eddie," yells someone nearby. It's Eddie's father. I can see him smiling, proud his son is starting. I shake my head because I've seen this same man walk out of games when his son dropped a ball or made a bad throw. But for now, he's proud. His son is starting. My son is on the bench.

By the fourth inning my fingers are stiff fi^om the cold, and my feet are numb, but I don't care. My son has been called into the game and he's about to come up to bat. I glance at the dugout. He stands, sorts through the batting helmets and chooses one. Please, I pray, let him get a hit. He picks a bat and struts to the batter's box. I grip the metal seat as he takes a couple of practice swings, adjusts his batting glove and steps up to the plate. The pitcher looks like an adult. I wonder if anyone has checked his birth certificate.

Strike one. "Nice swing!" I yell.

The next pitch is a ball. "Good eye! Good eye!"

Strike two.

The pitcher winds up for the throw. I hold my breath.

Strike three. My son's head hangs and he slowly walks back to the dugout. I look away knowing there's nothing I can do.

For eight years I've been sitting here. I've drunk gallons of terrible coffee, eaten my share of green hot-dogs and salty popcorn. I've suffered from the cold and the heat, eaten dust, and sat in the rain.

Some people wonder why a sane person would go through this. It's not because I want to fulfill my dreams of excelling at sports through my children. And I also don't do this because of the emotional highs. Oh yes, there have been a few. I've seen one or the other of my sons score the winning goal in soccer and hit home runs in baseball and spark a come-from-behind in basketball. But mostly I've seen heartache.

I've waited at home vsath them for a phone call telling them

VIRTUE 85

they'd made the team. Phone calls that never came. IVe seen them sit on the bench game after game and get up to bat only to strike out. I've sat in emergency rooms as their broken bones were set and swollen ankles x-rayed. I've watched coaches yell at them. I've sat here year after year observing it all and wondering why.

The game is over. I stretch my legs and try to stomp life back into my frozen feet. The coach meets with the team. They yell some rallying cry and then descend on their parents. I notice Eddie's dad is slapping him on the back with a big grin on his face. My son wants money for a hamburger. While I wait, the coach approaches me. I can't bring myself to look at him.

"Mrs. Bodmer, I wanted you to know that's a fine young man you have there."

"Why?" I ask, waiting for him to explain why he broke my son's heart.

"When I told your son he could start, he thanked me and then turned me down. He told me to let Eddie start, that it meant more to him."

I turn to watch my son stuffing a burger into his mouth. I realize then why I sit in the stands. Where else can I watch my son grow into a man?

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

To Whom Shall I Leave My Kingdom?

Donald E. Wildmon

Once the King of a large kingdom was growing old. He decided that it was time to select an heir from among his four sons, so he called them in one at a time to discuss the inheritance of his kingdom.

When the first son entered the chamber of the King and sat down, the King spoke to him. "My son, I am very old and will not live much longer. I wish to entrust my kingdom to the son best suited to receive it. Tell me, if I leave my kingdom to you what will you give to the kingdom?"

Now this son was very rich. So when asked the question, he replied: "I am a man of vast wealth. If you leave me your kingdom I will give it all of my wealth and it will be the richest kingdom in all the world."

"Thank you, son," the King said as he dismissed the son. When the second son entered, the King spoke to him. "My son, I am very old and will not live much longer. I wish to entrust my kingdom to the son best suited to receive it. Tell me, if I leave my kingdom to you what will you give to the kingdom?"

Now this son was very intelligent. So when asked the question, he replied: "I am a man of vast intelligence. If you leave me your kingdom I will give it all of my intelligence and it will be the most intelligent kingdom in all the world."

"Thank you, son," the King said as he dismissed the son.

When the third son entered, the King spoke to him. "My son, I am very old and will not live much longer. I wish to entrust my kingdom to the son best suited to receive it. Tell me, if I leave my kingdom to you what will you give to the kingdom?"

VIRTUE 87

Now this son was very strong. So when asked the question, he rephed: "I am a man of great strength. If you leave me your kingdom I will give it all of my strength and it will be the strongest kingdom in all the world."

"Thank you, son," the King said as he dismissed the son.

The fourth son entered and was greeted by the King in the same fashion as the other three. "My son, I am very old and will not live much longer. I wish to entrust my kingdom to the son best suited to receive it. Tell me, if I leave my kingdom to you what will you give to the kingdom?"

Now this son wasn't especially rich, or smart, or strong. So he replied, "My father, you know that my brothers are much richer, smarter and stronger than I. While they have spent years gaining these attributes, I have spent my time among the people in your kingdom. I have shared with them in their sickness and sorrow. And I have learned to love them. I'm afraid that the only thing I have to give to your kingdom is my love of the people. I know that my brothers have more to offer than I do, therefore I will not be disappointed in not being named your heir. I will simply go on doing what I have always done."

When the king died the people anxiously awaited the news as to their new ruler. And the greatest rejoicing the kingdom ever knew took place when the fourth son was named by the King as his successor.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

The MagnaDoodle Message

Liz Curtis Higgs

Every seat was filled as we waited in the county clerk's office to get my driver's license renewed. Children of all ages wandered about exploring their temporary environment, as did my own wee ones.

Lillian was a lap baby at the time (although she never stayed there), and Matthew was four and already beginning to write recognizable words. He never went anywhere without his MagnaDoodle drawing toy, and that morning was no exception.

I encouraged my sometimes-shy son to venture out to the center of the room where several kids were playing with a stack of books and games. Matthew went, dragging his MagnaDoodle behind him. A younger child was turning the p2iges of a colorful book, which Matthew soon became interested in too. A minute later, my son wresded the book out of the other child's fingers and was enjoying the brightly colored pages all by himself, leaving the little boy out of the fun.

Until that moment, I had merely watched this little drama unfold; now it was time to enter the scene. "Matthew!" I whispered sharply. "That was not nice. Please apologize and give him back his book right away."

Looking miserable, Matthew extended the much-prized book in the tot's direction, to which the little boy responded v^th the toddler version of "Harrumph!" and tottered away.

Now Matthew was really miserable; he'd upset his mother, and now some kid was unhappy with him too. Matthew sat for a moment, staring into space while the wheels turned inside. Then slowly picking up his MagnaDoodle, he v^ote something down and without a word, held it up for the other child to see.

VIRTUE 89

The toddler ignored him, of course, because he couldn't

But I could. "I'm sorry," it said. So simple, so profound. Matthew couldn't bring himself to speak the words, but he could put it in writing. When the boy didn't respond as Matthew hoped, he held up the sign again, holding it out farther, with a pleading expression on his face, but to no avail.

Around the room, other mothers were beginning to notice the quiet four-year-old with wheat-colored hair and a litde sign that read, "I'm sorry." I wasn't the only one who had to blink back tears.

read the words.

A man never discloses his own character so clearly as when he describes another's.

Jean Paul Richter

1763-1825

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Beauty Contest

Carla Muir

Asuccessful beauty product company asked the people in a large city to send pictures along with brief letters about the most beautiful women they knew. Within a few weeks thousands of letters were delivered to the company.

One letter in particular caught the attention of the employees and soon it was handed to the company president. The letter was written by a young boy who was obviously from a broken home, living in a run-down neighborhood. With spelling corrections, an excerpt from his letter read: "A beautiful woman lives dov^ the street from me. I visit her every day. She makes me feel like the most important kid in the world. We play checkers and she listens to my problems. She understands me and

when I leave she always yells out the door that she's proud of »»

me.

The boy ended his letter saying, "This picture shows you that she is the most beautiful woman. I hope I have a wife as pretty as her."

Intrigued by the letter, the president asked to see this woman's picture. His secretary handed him a photograph of a smiling, toothless woman, well-advanced in years, sitting in a wheelchair. Sparse gray hair was pulled back in a bun and wrinkles that formed deep furrows on her face were somehow diminished by the twinkle in her eyes.

"We can't use this woman," explained the president, smiling. "She would show the world that our products aren't necessary to be beautiful."

VIRTUE 91

Bouquet

David Seamands

Someone once asked Corrie ten Boom how she could possibly handle all the compliments and praise that were constantly heaped upon her, without becoming proud. She said she looked at each compliment as a beautiful long-stemmed flower given to her. She smelled it for a moment and then put it into a vase with the others. Each night, just before retiring, she took the beautiful bouquet and handed it over to God saying, "Thank you. Lord, for letting me smell the flowers; they all belong to you." She had discovered the secret to genuine humility.

If you're headed in the wrong direction, God allows U-Turns,

From a bumper sticker

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Olympic Gold

Catherine Swift

Saturday, July 5, 1924, was the day for the 8th Olympiad of modern times to begin. After the first modern games were played in Greece in 1896, as a tribute to the French Baron who revived them, the Olympics were staged in Paris. Compared to the first Olympics when thirteen countries took part, this time there were forty-five countries and the stadium was filled with 60,000 spectators.

Amid the waving and cheering there came the skirl of the pipes, and the Queen's Cameron Highlanders emerged fi^om the gateway. They were an impressive sight in their sv^nging kilts and bearskin headdresses. For a moment the crowd seemed mesmerized at the sight and sound, but when the team from Great Britain came marching in behind the band, the cheers rang out even louder....

The Olympic relay torch wasn't a part of the ceremony in those days, but thousands of pigeons were released to wing their way over the entire country with the good news.

After this the Olympic Oath was recited, and then the four thousand competitors filed out of the arena again to more wild cheering and waving. The 8th Olympiad had begun. All this while Eric Liddell was coming under a lot of pressure to run in the 100 meters. Really it hadn't stopped from that day months earlier when he said he wouldn't run on a Sunday. But once in Paris the criticism began to hurt more.

Eric went to see Harold Abrahams, Britain's remaining hope for a medal in the 100 meters, and he wished him well. As a Jew, Harold's Sabbath was Saturday and Eric respected this. He understood that it was as right for Harold to run on a Sunday as it would have been v^ong for himself.

VIRTUE 93

Sunday, July 6, saw the young Cambridge University student Abrahams hned up for the 100-meter prehminary heat. At the same time, Eric Liddell was addressing a congregation in the Scots Kirk (church) on the other side of Paris.

Harold came through both heats. The following day he was all set for the semi-final, and among the spectators was Eric to cheer him on to victory. Then came the final and it was a tremendous victory for Harold. He reached the tape in 10.6 seconds. The stadium erupted in loud applause. No European had ever won a gold medal in that event, and it would be fifty-six years before one won it again.

Deep inside, Eric must have felt a tinge of regret—but there wasn't an element of envy in him. He was elated for Harold's success.

Now he felt firee of the criticism too and was able to concentrate on his own two events. The heats for the 200-meter race were held on Tuesday. Both Eric and Harold qualified in each for a place in the final the next day.

Wednesday was another searingly hot day. Eric was lined up with Harold and four Americans. Both British men got off to a good start, but first one and then the other fell behind. Tvo of the Americans reached the tape first, taking the gold and the silver medals. Eric placed third, and Harold came in sixth and last place.

This may seem disastrous, but it was really a success for Eric. Scodand had never won a bronze for the 200-meter race. And the whole of Britain had never achieved anything better than third place and a bronze medal.

But when Thursday came and the 400-meter heats, Eric didn't do too badly. He didn't shine, either, even though his time improved in each heat. It was better still the next day in the semi-final. Still, he only managed to qualify. On the previous day, in one heat, Imbach of Switzerland actually broke the

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

world record when he ran the distance in 48 seconds.

There were six finahsts: two Americans, one Canadian, and the two Britishers, Guy Butler and Eric Liddell....

As usual, Eric went along the line shaking the competitors' hands and giving them his best wishes. This was a ritual the international crown had begun to look for although they still thought it strange to see one sportsman wishing his rival well— but they didn't know Eric the man....

In the last few moments before the gun as the athletes were warming up, without any warning, a mighty sound filled the enormous arena. The pipes and drums of the Queen's Cameron Highlanders had struck up with "The Campbells are Coming."

The British team organizer, Sir Philip Christison, sensed some despondency among the British supporters and thought some rousing music would cheer them up. Maybe it would spur Eric Liddell too. After all, he was a Scot and the skirl of the pipes would surely send the blood racing through his veins— just at a time when it was most needed.

...Eventually, the music faded. A tense silence returned only to be shattered by the sharp crack of the starting pistol, cuid Eric was off.

No one could believe what they were seeing. Right from the start he leapt into a three-meter lead. On he went with that awful running style of his. He resembled a feeble swimmer, out of his depth cmd struggling for eiir; thrashing out with arms and legs.

Everyone knew he couldn't keep up that pace. A 100-meter man couldn't do what he was doing. Still, he pounded on. Guy Butler was running his heart out too. For a while the crowd seemed hypnotized. Then the unexpected occurred. Fitch, one of the Americans, overtook Butler to sprint closer and closer to Eric who was still in the lead. But again, the unexpected happened. Eric began to run faster.

VIRTUE 95

Closer and closer he drew to the tape—^without seeing it. His head was back on his shoulders and his eyes were looking up to heaven. From out of nowhere, it seemed, hosts of British Union Jacks appeared among the onlookers to wave him on to victory.

Suddenly, after what seemed like miles, the 400-meter race was over. Eric Liddell reached the tape a full five meters ahead of Fitch, with the injured Guy Butler sprinting into third place to take a bronze.

The crowd's roar could be heard all over Paris. Then, in a brief spell of quiet, a voice boomed out over the speaker to announce that Eric had run the race in a new world record time of 47.6 seconds. This time it seemed the cheers would be heard across the channel in Britain

Sir Philip Christison was confident the stirring effect of the pipes and drums had spurred the 22-year-old Scot to victory that day. But Eric knew it was something quite different. It was all due to a few simple words written on a scrap of paper.

In the days leading up to his races, the masseur officially assigned to care for the British team had come to know Eric very well and he liked him immensely.

To try in some way to show the athlete how much he admired him, as Eric was leaving his hotel for the Colombes Stadium, the masseur came up to him and pressed a piece of folded paper into his hand.

Later, in one of the few quiet times of that day, he unfolded the paper and read: "In the old book it says, 'He that honors me I wall honor.' Wishing you the best of success always."

For the 1924 Olympic Games a motto had been especially created. It was "Citius, Althius, Fortius," meaning "Faster, Higher, Stronger" and it could apply to no competitor more than to Eric Liddell.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

A Candy Bar

Doris Sanford

There was once a lady who worked in a high rise office building in London. Every day for her coffee break she went down to the first floor cafeteria and purchased a Kit Kat candy bar from the vending machine, and a cup of coffee. This day was no different. After finding a small table in the corner and seating herself, she leaned over to search for something in her purse. When she sat up again a gentleman had seated himself across from her at the table. He had a cup of coffee, a doughnut and her Kit Kat bar in his mouth. He didn't apologize or offer any explanation. He simply ate it.

She was surprised and irritated, but said nothing. As quickly as possible she drank her coffee. The more she thought about it, however, the angrier she became. Finally she stood to leave and stomped over beside him, grabbing the remnant of his doughnut and stuffing it in her mouth. As best she could she said, "There now. How does that feel?" and marched back to her office, where she again opened her purse. To her horror, there on top was her Kit Kat candy bar!

VIRTUE 97

What To Listen For

Tim Hansel

n Indian was in downtown New York, walking along with his friend, who lived in New \brk City. Suddenly he said, "I hear a cricket."

"Oh, you're crazy," his ftiend replied.

"No, I hear a cricket. I do! Tm sure of it."

"It's the noon hour. You know there are people busding around, cars honking, taxis squealing, noises from the city. I'm sure you can't hear it."

"I'm sure I do." He listened attentively and then walked to the corner, across the street, and looked all around. Finally on the other corner he found a shrub in a large cement planter. He dug beneath the leaf and found a cricket.

His friend was duly astounded. But the Indian said, "No, my ears are no different from yours. It simply depends on what you are listening to. Here, let me show you."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change—a few quarters, some dimes, nickels, and pennies. And he dropped it on the concrete.

Every head within a block turned.

"Y)u see what I mean?" the Indian said as he began picking up his coins. "It all depends on what you are listening for."

JZV

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

. Good Turn

Retold by Nola Bertelson

II 1 leven-year-old Jeff, along with the rest of the boy scout l4 troop, did a "good turn" in order to complete a project II ^ for their next service badge. The boys gathered at Mr. and Mrs. Meyers' house and spent some time cleaning the snow and ice off the older couple's sidewalks and porch.

But somehow, Jeff didn't feel satisfied. To him, it felt sort of phony. He talked it over with his scoutmaster. "I don't think it really helped them much. It seems like we did it more to earn points for ourselves."

"\ou could go back on your own to see what you can do to help them," the discerning scoutmaster suggested. "And, if you don't tell anyone about it, you won't be earning 'poii^ts' in any way.

To Jeff, that sounded like the perfect solution. Several days passed before Jeff worked up enough courage to return to the house. When he finally knocked on the door, he was nervous, but he was determined to follow through with his good turn.

It was Mrs. Meyers who opened the door. She listened carefully, and then politely declined Jeff's offer of help. Mr. Meyers, however, overheard the conversation.

"I know something you can help with," he said cheerfully, and he motioned Jeff to follow him into the kitchen. Mr. Meyers had several projects there needing the aid of sturdy arms and legs. Jeff was kept busy carrying items up and down from the basement, and climbing a stepladder to reach high shelves and corners. That evening when he climbed into bed, Jeff felt very tired, but he felt more satisfied with his work than he had after shoveling snow.

After school the next day, Jeff returned to the Meyers'

VIRTUE 99

home. This time they were both wiUing to accept his help with several tasks.

He stopped by a third time a few days later.

"No work today," Mrs. Meyers said. For a moment Jeff felt offended, but then he saw the twinkle in Mr. Meyers' eyes. "Today we have a surprise for you." With that they ushered him into the small dining room.

A charming table-setting for three sat waiting, complete with lace cloth, flowers, and a silver plate filled v^th diamond-shaped cookies. Jeff was quite surprised but he remembered his manners and held a chair for Mrs. Meyers as she sat dovm.

"These are poor man's cookies," Mrs. Meyers said as she passed the silver plate to Jeff.

"Why are they called that?" he asked, thinking it an odd name for cookies.

Mr. Meyers answered, "After you buy all the ingredients, you're a poor man!" Thus began an hour or so of laughter and conversation. As the couple shared pictures and told stories about their family that now lived far away, Jeff's heart was softened as he realized how lonely they were. He decided to stop by often and "help out."

All during the years of junior and senior high, Jeff continued to find reasons to stop by. There was always some way he could pitch in. Between mowing lawns, raking leaves, clearing snow, weeding gardens, and all kinds of indoor projects, the three talked and laughed and grew to be very important in each other's lives.

All too soon the time came when Jeff entered the Army to serve his country. Letters had to replace the face-to-face talks. Every holiday season Jeff looked forward to receiving a package from the Meyerses—always a batch of poor man's cookies.

Mr. Meyers died while Jeff was in the service, and Jeff felt his loss immensely. When he returned home, he picked up his

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

old habit of stopping in "just to help out a bit." He knew Mrs. Meyers was lonelier than ever without Mr. Meyers. And she continued to serve poor man's cookies on the silver platter in the dining room. It was so touching to see her continue to set three places at the table for their special tea times.

Then, Jeff was getting married. Mrs. Meyers would not have missed his wedding for anything. She left her house the day of the ceremony carrying her gift—a "rag" rug that she wove by hand, and a double batch of poor man's cookies. Tucked inside the package was her special cookie recipe. As it turned out, that was the last batch of cookies she made; Mrs. Meyers died a few months later.

For many years, Jeff kept his promise to himself that he would never tell anyone about the "special project" helpmg the Meyerses. He thought that drawing the attention to himself would spoil the "good turn."

The difference between holding on to a hurt or releasing it with forgiveness — is like the difference between laying your head down at night on a pillow filled with thorns or a pillow filled with rose petals.

Loren Fischer

VIRTUE 101

Behind the Quick Sketch

Joni Eareckson Tada

My art instructor, an excellent craftsman, told me a compelling story about the benefits of diligent work. Many years ago there was a famous Japanese artist named Hokusai, whose paintings were coveted by royalty. One day a nobleman requested a special painting of his prized bird. He left the bird with Hokusai, and the artist told the nobleman to return in a week.

The master missed his beautiful bird, and was anxious to return at the end of the week, not only to secure his favorite pet, but his painting as well. When the nobleman arrived, however, the artist humbly requested a two-week postponement.

The two-week delay stretched into two months— and then six. A year later, the nobleman stormed into Hokusai's studio. He refused to wait any longer and demanded both his bird and his painting. Hokusai, in the Japanese way, bowed to the nobleman, turned to his workshop table, and picked up a brush and a large sheet of rice paper. Within moments he had effortlessly painted an exact likeness of the lovely bird.

The bird's owner was stunned by the painting. And then he W2is angry. "Why did you keep me waiting for a year if you could have done the painting in such a short time?"

"\bu don't understand," Hokusai replied. Then he escorted the nobleman into a room where the walls were covered wath paintings of the same bird. None of them, however, matched the grace and beauty of the final rendering....

This must also be true of the canvas of our lives If we

want to have something of real worth and lasting value in our character, it won't come easy. It never does.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Androclm and the Lion

Retold by Casandra Lindell This is based on a true story recorded in Noctes Attica Vol. XV

by Autus Gellius

Meart racing, legs aching, he reached the forest; Androclus knew no other safe place. He could survive there—find roots and berries, avoid wild animals. He had few choices—he would be executed as a runaway slave if caught.

He wondered how it would be, living in terror of discovery. Every pine cone that fell softly to the mossy carpet beneath his feet was enough to make him jump, jerking his head around so wide eyes could search for soldiers.

He needed shelter. Rain was in the air, and it would soon be dark. Through the trees, he saw an opening in the rocks. Thinking it might be big enough to sleep in just for one night, Androclus veered toward it.

Suddenly he stopped. Lying to the right of the opening was a lion. Instinct kicked in and Androclus ran, praying that the creature had already eaten.

Hearing no sound of pursuit, he slowed, and then stopped. Looking back, he saw that the lion had not chased. In fact, its only movement had been to roll its head to look at the man— rather sorrowfully, Androclus thought.

Slowly, he retraced his steps. The lion was in pain. Androclus spoke softly, stroking mane and back, gently searching for injury. Finally, he found it—a nasty gash on the lion's hind leg that had been bleeding for some time and showed no sign of stopping. The man tore cloth from the hem of his tunic and cleaned the wound. The lion shuddered and groaned. Finally, it slept.

Just then the clouds let go of their rain. Androclus crawled

VIRTUE 103

into the cave and fell asleep immediately. It had been a long run from the city. Minutes later, he awoke as the lion crawled into the cave next to him, dragging its leg, and collapsed with a wheezing sigh.

The cave was large, and man and beast lived together for several weeks. Androclus found a fresh spring not too far away. The two hunted and gathered the food each needed.

One day, while scooping water from the stream, Androclus felt something sharp press into his neck.

"Don't move," a quarrelsome voice ordered. "There is quite a reward for the life of a runaway slave, you know. Now, stand up slowly."

Forced back to the city, Androclus thought of his friend the lion, knowing they would never meet again. He was taken to stand before the Emperor in court, and was there sentenced to death. Soldiers took him to a stone cell in the halls under the arena until the time of execution.

Finally, they led him into the arena. The crowd spat its hatred. But they began a thunderous cheer when a lion was loosed—a lion that had not been fed for several days, a lion poked and prodded into fierce anger by the soldiers. It roared when it saw the man, and bounded headlong toward its prey.

Androclus knew he didn't stand a chance. Still, his muscles tensed for the fight, readied for pain. How different things had turned out when he befiiended a lion in pain instead of poking and prodding one. He closed his eyes, waiting for the weight of the animal, steeling against the first slashing blow.

Instead of searing pain, he felt the tongue of the lion wash his face as it knocked him to the ground. Androclus opened his eyes—face to face with his friend from the forest. Instead of pouncing to kill, even after days of hunger and torment, the lion, once so gently cared for, fawned over the man like a fiiendly dog.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

The crowd was instantly silent, the Emperor stunned. He called Androclus'to him, and Androclus told his story.

"Both Androclus and his lion are hereby freed," the Emperor announced. "Such amazing kindness and gratitude between fierce enemies should be greatly rewarded."

MEASURE OF A MAN

The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.

Martin Luther King

VIRTUE 105

Billy Graham

here is a story of a woman in England who came to her

vicar with a troubled conscience. The vicar knew her to

_IJL be an habitual gossip—she maligned nearly everyone in the village.

"How can I make amends?" she pleaded. The vicar said, "If you want to make peace with your conscience, take a bag of goose feathers and drop one on the porch of each one you have slandered."

When she had done so, she came back to the vicar and said, "Is that all?" "No," said the wise old minister, "you must go now and gather up every feather and bring them all back to

After a long time the woman returned without a single feather. "The wind has blovm them all away." she said. "My good woman," said the vicar, "so it is with gossip. Unkind words are easily dropped, but we can never take them back

me.

agam.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

The Toe-Tapper

Joan Sparks

One day a wise man came to a small town. He needed a place to stay so he went to the first church he found. Inside, a small group of people argued about how they could best please God.

"I'll help you," the man said, "but you must promise to use what I do to glorify God."

"Oh, we will," the people assured him. "We will." He gave each of them gifts—one was to be a pianist, another a flutist. To one he gave a cello, to another a violin, and to yet another he gave the role of toe-tapper.

The people worked long and hard to prepare a song of praise for the church. The music became more and more beautiful.

One afternoon during practice the violinist said to the pianist, "I'm so glad I have the important job of playing the violin. I'd sure hate to be only a toe-tapper." The toe-tapper was so hurt that he went home.

The next day, when the group met to practice, nothing came together right. Finally, the flutist said, "Without the toe-tapper here I don't know when to come in for my part." They started over time and time again, but the music sounded terrible.

It was then that the violinist spoke up in a very sad voice. "I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I thought I was so important that I didn't need the help of the toe-tapper. I was wrong!"

So he led the way to the toe-tapper's house and asked him to come back with them. The toe-tapper agreed and once again the music was beautiful.

Then, one Sunday, they played their music in church. God looked down and smiled.

I think he even winked at the toe-tapper.

VIRTUE 107

Taking Sides

Zig Ziglar

Alittle guy was confronted by three bullies, any one of whom could have obliterated him, and they were giving some evidence that they had that plan in mind. The litrie guy was very bright, so he backed away from the three bullies, drew a line in the dirt, backed up a few more steps, looked into the eyes of the biggest of the three, and said, "Now, you just step across that line." Confidently, the big bully did exactly that, and the little guy just grinned and said, "Now, we're both on the same side."

The reason a dog has so many friends is because he wags his tail instead of his tongue.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

. The Dress

Margaret Jensen

Mary was young, filled with dreams of love for God and His service. John, restless and impatient in his new pastorate in the farmlands of Wisconsin, longed for the libraries and action of New \ork City or Chicago, where he had attended seminary. John's brilliant mind craved books. Mary saw beauty in everything—the smell of the freshly plowed fields, the song of a bird, the first signs of spring, crocuses and violets. Mary sang to the wind and laughed with the birds. But she had one secret longing, a new dress for spring. Not the somber brovm or black, befitting a minister's wife, but a soft voile, billowing dress with lace around the neck and sleeves and a big sash.

There was no money! Carefully she laid plans. She would put pennies into a box until there was enough money to buy a new kerosene lamp for John and material for a new dress. She would reuse the lace from an old velvet dress in the trunk. Someday she would make a blue velvet dress for her baby Louise.

The day came when the treadle machine purred like music while Mary sang and sewed. Golden-haired Louise played with empty spools and clothes pins. The small house shone clean. The new lamp had a place of honor on John's reading table.

In a playful mood, Mary pulled dovm her long brown hair, brushed it in the morning sun. Then she put on her new dress, soft pink voile with violets and lace. A sash tied at the back, and Mary swomg around to the delightful squeals of Louise. It was spring! She was young, just 23, with another new life within her and Louise to rock and love. The wilderness church, the

VIRTUE 109

somber immigrants tilling the land, and the severe harshness of long winter had isolated the young wife into her world of poetry and song. But she had grown to love the faithful people and shared their joys and sorrows. Today, she danced with abandoned joy in her new billowing dress.

With the flash of summer lightning, Mary was whirled around by an angry John, whose storm of frustration unleashed the fury within him. "Money for foolishness! No libraries, no books—no one to talk to about an)^hing except cows and chickens, planting and harvest."

Like a smoldering volcano, John erupted with rage and ripped the dress to shreds. Just as suddenly the storm was over, and the galloping hoofs of John's horse broke the quiet terror. As he rode into the wind, he unleashed the remainder of his fury on the passing fields and their wide-eyed cows and clucking chickens. He longed to gallop from Wisconsin to the heart of New \brk—his beloved library.

Huddled in a corner, Mary clutched Louise and the shredded dress. Trembling with fear and anger she remained motionless. Too drained to weep, she was sick with an emptiness and an unutterable longing for her mother. There was no one to turn to in the lonely farmland. She remembered Psalm 34:4. "I sought the Lord, and He heard me, and delivered me from all my fears." Then she wept, long and deep, and cried unto the Lord.

Mary set her heart to seek a way of escape. She would make a pallet up in the loft and take Louise to sleep with her. John would sleep alone. Then she folded the shredded dress in a small package and hid it in her trunk. Pastor Hansen was coming to visit the near churches and Mary decided to bide her time, to quietly wait and show the dress to Pastor Hansen, then ask for assistance to leave John and return to her mother. With quiet determination she put on her dark dress and combed her

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

hair into a severe knot, befitting a minister's wife. She set the table for supper. When John returned late in the night his supper was in the warming oven. Mary was asleep in the loft with Louise curled in her arms.

Quietly John ate his supper and looked for Mary. When he found her in the loft, he ordered her back to their bed and put Louise in her crib. Mary gently tucked Louise in her crib and obediently went to bed. John's storm had passed, but he was unaware of the debris in its wake.

Life went on as usual, but the song was gone and Mary's steps were weighted with bitterness. She quietly waited and thought out her plans.

The arrival of Pastor Hansen brought a new exuberance to John as the two ministers discussed books and theology and the work of the church conference. Mary served quietly. No one would have guessed the anguish behind her gentle face as she worshipped wath the faithful congregations, but heard litde of the sermons.

The final service was drawing to a close and, as yet, Mary had not had the opportunity to see Pastor Hansen alone. She had to find the opening, perhaps this Sunday afternoon, when John would visit a shut-in member while Pastor Hansen would meditate on the evening message. With a quickened mind she decided to listen to the sermon and perhaps use his comments as an opening.

"The text this morning is found in Mark 1 1:25 (KJV). *When ye stand praying, forgive.' Forgiveness is not optional, but a definite act of the will to forgive, in obedience to God's command. The feeling comes later, the feeling of peace. When we offer to God our hurts and despair, God will pour His love and compassion into the wounds, and His healing will come."

Oh, no, Mary cried inside. I can't forgive, and I can never forget.

VIRTUE 111

The sermon continued, "Someone may be thinking, I can never forget, even if I could forgive. You are right, you can't forget, but you needn't be devastated by the remembering. God's love and His forgiveness can and will cushion the memory until the imprint is gone. When you forgive you must destroy the evidence, and remember only to love."

John and Pastor Hansen rode home with Deacon Olsen. Mary stepped into her buggy, tied her wide black hat vsdth a scarf and carefully secured Louise around her waist. As the horse, Dolly, trotted briskly down the country road, Mary's scalding tears poured forth.

She knew what she must do. She would obey God. Without waiting to unhitch Dolly, she fled from the buggy and placed Louise in her crib. With trembling hands, Mary took out of the trunk the package with the torn dress, but she couldn't let go.

The Sunday dinner was in the warming oven; Mary poked the fire and added more wood. Automatically she put on the coffee pot and set the table. "The evidence must go," rang in her memory. "I forgive you, John." She finally picked up the tattered dress with one hand and the stove lid with the other. Tears splashed on the fire as she watched the dress burn slowly.

"True forgiveness destroys the evidence," pounded so loudly in her heart that she failed to hear John's footsteps. "Mary, what are you doing?" Trembling with sobs, she said, "I am destroying the evidence."

To herself she said, "My offering to God."

Then John remembered! Pale and shaken he murmured, "Please forgive me."

Fifty-eight years later, when John had gone home to the Lord and she missed him terribly, Mary had a dream. Three angels appeared to her and said, "Come, we are going to a celebration." Over the arm of one angel was draped a beautifiil dress.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

Distant Relatives

Carla Muir

Acertain old recluse lived deep in the mountains of Colorado. When he died, distant relatives came from the city to collect his valuables. Upon arriving, all they saw w^as an old shack with an outhouse beside it. Inside the shack, next to the rock fireplace, was an old cooking pot and his mining equipment. A cracked table with a three-legged chair stood guard by a tiny window, and a kerosene lamp served as the centerpiece for the table. In a dark corner of the little room was a dilapidated cot with a threadbare bedroll on it.

They picked up some of the old relics and started to leave. As they were driving away, an old friend of the recluse, on his mule, flagged them down. "Do you mind if I help myself to what's left in my friend's cabin?" he asked. "Go right ahead," they replied. After all, they thought, what inside that shack could be worth anything?

The old friend entered the shack and walked directly over to the table. He reached under it and lifted one of the floor boards. He then proceeded to take out all the gold his friend had discovered over the past 53 years—enough to have built a palace. The recluse died with only his friend knowing his true worth. As the friend looked out of the little window and watched the cloud of dust behind the relative's car disappear, he said, "They shoulda got to know him better."

VIRTUE 113

It's More Than a Job

Charles Swindoll

Ayoung fella rushed into a service station and asked the manager if he had a pay phone. The manager nodded, "Sure, over there." The boy pushed in a couple of coins, dialed, and waited for an answer. Finally, someone came on the line. "Uh, sir," he said in a deep voice, "could you use an honest, hardworking young man to work for you?" The station manager couldn't help overhearing the question. After a moment or two the boy said, "Oh, you already have an honest, hardworking young man? Well, okay. Thanks just the same."

With a broad smile stretched across his face, he hung up the phone and started back to his car, humming and obviously elated. "Hey, just a minute!" the station manager called after him. "I couldn't help but hear your conversation. Why are you so happy? I thought the guy said he already had somebody and didn't need you?" The young man smiled. "Well, you see, I am the honest, hardworking young man. I was just checking up on my job!"

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

A Tender Warrior

Stu Weber

hat does a healthy man look like? I can't help but recall a statement from a young man who lives near us—a sixteen-year-old high school sophomore. His parents divorced when he was eight years old. His father left and has never returned. His stepdad, a tyrannical and poor excuse for a man, treats him poorly. Tells him to "shut up" all the time. Tells him he's worthless, stupid, and will never amount to anything.

But just ask the boy about his dresun and his eyes will light up. This is what he'll tell you: "I'd like to find out where my real dad lives. And I'd like to move in next door without him knowing who I W21S. And—I'd like to just become his friend. Once I had become his friend, then maybe it would be OK for me to move on."

This same young man who has had all kinds of difficulty in his life was asked to write an essay on the subject, "What is a man?" The foUov^ng is his brief essay—^written by a boy who has never really been around a man, never really seen one. But I think there is something so inherent, so ingrained, so intrinsic, so fundamental, that even a young boy who has never seen it modeled can put it into words. Here's what he wrote: A real man is kind. A real man is caring.

A real man walks away from silly macho fights.

A real man helps his wife.

A real man helps his kids when they are sick.

A real man doesn't run from his problems.

A real man sticks to his word and keeps his promises.

A real man is honest.

A real man is not in trouble with the law.

VIRTUE 115

It's one lonely boy's vision of a man who stays. A man who is both an authority and under authority. It's a vision of a Tender Warrior.

Character is what you are in the dark,. Dwight L. Moody

Love

ONMKSS

Henceforth there will he such a oneness between us — that when one weeps the other will taste salt.

Author Unknown

LOVE 119

The Pencil Box

Doris Sanford

Iwas deep in thought at my office, preparing a lecture to be given that evening at a college across town, when the phone rang. A woman I had never met introduced herself and said that she was the mother of a seven-year-old and that she was dying. She said that her therapist had advised her that discussing her pending death with her son would be too traumatic for him, but somehow that didn't feel right to her.

Knowing that I worked with grieving children, she asked my advice. I told her that our heart is often smarter than our brain and that I thought she knew what would be best for her son. I also invited her to attend the lecture that night since I was speaking about how children cope with death. She said she would be there.

I wondered later if I would recognize her at the lecture, but my question was answered when I saw a frail woman being half carried into the room by two adults. I talked about the fact that children usually sense the truth long before they are told and that they often wait until they feel adults are ready to talk about it before sharing their concerns and questions. I said that children usually can handle truth better than denial, even though the denial is intended to protect them from pain. I said that respecting children meant including them in the family sadness, not shutting them out.

She had heard enough. At the break, she hobbled to the podium and through her tears she said, "I knew it in my heart. I just knew I should tell him." She said that she would tell him that night.

The next morning I received another phone call from her.

MORE STORIES FOR THE HEART

She could hardly talk but I managed to hear the story through her choked voice. She awakened him when they got home the night before and quietly said, "Derek, I have something to tell you." He quickly interrupted her saying, "Oh, Mommy, is it now that you are going to tell me that you are dying?" She held him close and they both sobbed while she said, "\es."

After a few minutes the little boy wanted down. He said that he had something for her that he had been saving. In the back of one of his drawers was a dirty pencil box. Inside the box was a letter written in simple scrawl. It said, "Good-bye, Mom. I will always love you."

How long he had been waiting to hear the truth, I don't know. I do know that two days later Mom died. In her casket was placed a dirty pencil box and a letter.

Measure wealth not by the things you have, hut by the things you have for which you would not take money.

Anonymous

LOVE 121

She s My Precious

Robertson McQuilkin (condensed)

Written six years after stepping down as president of Columbia Bible College and Seminary to care for his wife, Muriel who suffers from Alzheimer's.

Seventeen summers ago, Muriel and I began our journey into the twilight. It's midnight now, at least for her, and sometimes I wonder when dawn will break. Even the dread of Alzheimer's disease isn't supposed to attack so early and torment so long. \et, in her silent world, Muriel is so content, so lovable. If Jesus took her home, how I would miss her gentle, sweet presence. \es, there are times when I get irritated, but not often. It doesn't make much sense to get angry. And besides, perhaps the Lord has been answering the prayer of my youth to mellow my spirit.

Once, though, I completely lost it. In the days when Muriel could still stand and walk and we had not resorted to diapers, sometimes there were "accidents." I was on my knees beside her, trying to clean up the mess as she stood, confused, by the toilet. It would have been easier if she weren't so insistent on helping. I got more and more frustrated. Suddenly, to make her stand still, I slapped her calf—as if that would do any good. It wasn't a hard slap, but she was startled. I was, too. Never in our forty-four years of marriage had I ever so much as touched her in anger or in rebuke of any kind. Never; wasn't even