> > The Heart of Discontent > > Ads were once simple presentations of the good qualities of > various products. Washers clean clothes. Toothpaste makes teeth > white. Soap scrub away dirt. This was the modern approach. Much > advertising today is postmodern. Image replaces function. Cars and > clothes make a statement. > > Cigarettes and beer portray an image. Advertisers tinker with our > hearts. They appeal to lust and the lower nature. They foster > discontent. > > Politics takes a similar stance no matter the party. Image replaces > issues. Spin replaces truth. Truth is relative. What candidates say is > the truth simply because they say it. Pulling at the heart, fostering > discontent, and offering hope are real tactics. > > Discontent in the heart erupts in actions not sought by advertisers > or politicians. In aggravated cases, discontent races riot. Young > people, exasperated by false promises that foster discontent in their > hearts, lash out against parents and peers. "What is the source of > quarrels and conflicts among you? Is not the source your pleasures > that wage war in your members? You lust and do not have; so you > commit murder. You are envious and cannot obtain; so you fight and > quarrel." (James 4:1-2). > > Contentment is something you learn. You can do so by the grace > of God. "I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I > am?. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me" > (Philippians 4:11and 13). > > Contributed by Dr. Dennis J. Prutow > > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

NICOTINE TEEN I was in my 10th grade science class, wishing, as always, that I wasn't. As if it wasn't bad enough that I had absolutely no interest in anything scientific, I was also totally entrenched in my own personal addiction to nicotine. Back in those days, in the early 60s when "bad" students were the ones who chewed gum in class or ran in the hall or wrote with lipstick on the bathroom mirror, I was the worst of the bad. Although I had no use for science, I did like Mr. Davies. He was good at bantering with me and I enjoyed the competition. Even though science stunk, Mr. Davies didn't. On this particular Friday, I couldn't get having a cigarette out of my mind. I had gotten caught fulfilling my desire for nicotine so many times, that I was perpetually suspect. Most of my teachers had given up on me. Still seated at my desk, it was a snap to slip the match into the top of my sock. It required a little more care to fit the butt under my watchband. After making sure it was covered by the long sleeve of my blouse, I took a deep breath and prepared to lie. Lying was different than just being a goof off, mouthing off or just plain being a lousy student. It bothered me to lie. The meaning of my name is "truthful one". Fortunately, that means much more now than then, since it was obviously not beneath me to lie if I wanted something badly enough that I could feel the end justified the means. Nicotine was something I wanted badly enough. I walked up to where Mr. Davies was sitting. By the twinkle in his eye, along with a slight smirk, I knew that he knew part of what I was going to say. And he knew, that I knew, he knew. "Mr. Davies..." He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, listening patiently, interested in hearing the details of my latest, but clearly not expecting to be fooled in the least. "I need to use the restroom, but I am not going to have a cigarette. Look... I am leaving my purse on my desk..." I pointed to it, in case he wanted proof. By the time I finished my plea, I could see in his face that he was going to let me. I just knew he bought it. But then he looked away and he didn't look so happy. Quietly, he told me, "You dropped something." I looked at the floor and saw that hideous cigarette. Instant death would have been welcomed. And deserved. Here was this big-mouth, smart-alec class clown, supposed to be tough as nails, now slinking back to her desk, her face buried in her hands, barely able to see to find her way. Somehow managing to seat myself while still trying to hide in my hands, my head spun and my face burned crimson as I waited to be humiliated still further by whatever words the teacher chose to finish me off. I had lied. I had tried to trick him. And, I had failed. I remember bracing myself for his words. I remember no one laughed. And I will always remember exactly what he said. He could have killed me with words at that moment. I was certainly one to recognize the perfect chance for him to get a good laugh at my expense from the entire class. This was one competition he could win so easily, so coolly, so smoothly. On top of that, he could have sent me to the principal. I would have been suspended for sure -- once again. Clearly, I was at his mercy. Most of all, I feared his words. When they came, after what seemed like about a year, I could hardly believe what I was hearing: "I want you to know that you are a welcome part of my class. And I want to see your bright an' smilin' face back in here for class on Monday morning." That was it. Mr. Davies was not a man to kick a girl when she was down -- golden opportunity or not. He was a gentleman. Even though I was no scholar. »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

Mikey's Goal Last night was the last game for my eight-year-old son's soccer team. It was the final quarter. The score was two to one, my son's team in the lead. Parents encircled the field, offering encouragement. With less than ten seconds remaining, the ball rolled in front of my son's teammate, one Mikey O'Donnel. With shouts of "Kick it!" echoing across the field, Mikey reared back and gave it everything he had. All round me the crowd erupted. O'Donnel had scored! Then there was silence. Mikey had scored all right, but in the wrong goal, ending the game in a tie. For a moment there was total hush. You see, Mikey has Down's syndrome and for him there is no such thing as a wrong goal. All goals were celebrated by a joyous hug from Mikey. He had even been known to hug the opposing players when they scored. The silence was finally broken when Mikey, his face filled with joy, grabbed my son, hugged him and yelled, "I scored! I scored. Everybody won! Everybody won!" For a moment I held my breath, not sure how my son would react. I need not have worried. I watched, through tears, as my son threw up his hand in the classic high-five salute and started chanting, "Way to go Mikey! Way to go Mikey!" Within moments both teams surrounded Mikey, joining in the chant and congratulating him on his goal. Later that night, when my daughter asked who had won, I smiled as I replied, "It was a tie. Everybody won." By Kim Kane Reprinted by permission of Kim Kane (c) 1998, from A 6th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen. »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

Take Jesus with You! I drive into work listening to Gospel music or a pre-recorded sermon on the radio. I get out of the car and walk to the building entrance. As I open the building door I leave just enough room for me to get in, yet I leave Jesus standing outside as the door closes behind me. He’s standing with His palms on the door glass and watches me as I get on the elevator. His eyes are sad, and He turns and goes to sit on the stone bench. There He’ ll sit patiently and wait for me for the next 9 hours. First two hours of work – I fuss and complain about things not going right. Jesus, sitting with his chin in His hand looks upward toward the building wishing He could help me. By lunch time – I’m flustered, regretting I work in this place and sputtering bitterness all over folks. Jesus comes around to the side of the building where my cubicle is located. He looks up from the ground trying to get my attention, but I can’t hear Him; my focus is on my problems. Jesus goes back to the front of the building, sits down and continues to wait for me. He thinks to Himself as He looks up to the third floor, “They went in there defenseless. If only they had taken Me in there with them. When will they learn?” End of the day – I’m pooped, run down, no energy, irritable and frustrated. I leave the building and Jesus gets up happily to greet me, but I’m in no mood for Him now. I’ve just been to hell and back, and the last thing I want to do is be bothered with anyone. God just showed me how I’ve been behaving. He showed me each act and worst of all, He let me feel a small portion of how grieved He was because of my actions and attitude. I left Jesus standing outside, almost let the door smack Him in His face. >From time to time our jobs overwhelm us, and we completely forget to “take Jesus with us.” We may not go around cursing anyone out or hitting anyone, but what are our actions saying about us and about who or whose we are? We should be bringing peace to our jobs and not be the cause of confusion. We should be the ones to bring our gifts and talents to the table to help in whatever area God has chosen for us to work in. If you in the middle of a difficult job situation, remember to take Jesus with you! «¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤» »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

Helping You Over The Mountains of Life You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him. James D. Miles Everyone respects and helps the millionaire, the famous, the boss, those with beauty and brains. What about the bum on the street? This is a real story. It happened to me, the writer of MountainWings.com. I was parked in front of the church cleaning out my Jeep.I was waiting on someone. Coming my way from across the street was what society would consider a bum. From the looks of him, he had no car, no home, no clean clothes, and no money. There are times when you feel generous but there are other times that you just don't want to be bothered. This was one of those "don't want to be bothered times." "I hope he doesn't ask me for any money," I thought. He didn't. He came and sat on the wall in front of the bus stop to wait on the bus. After a few minutes he spoke. "That's a very pretty Jeep," he said. He was ragged but he had an air of dignity around him. His scraggly blond beard keep more than his face warm. I said, "thanks," and continued cleaning out the Jeep. He sat there quietly as I worked. The expected plea for money never came. As the silence between us widened something inside said, "ask him if he needs any help." I was sure that he would say "yes" but I held true to the inner voice. "Do you need any help?" I asked. He answered in three simple but profound words that I shall never forget. We often look for wisdom in great men and women. We expect it from those of higher learning and accomplishments. I expected nothing but an outstretched grimy hand. He spoke the three words that shook me. "Don't we all?" he said. I was feeling high and mighty, successful and important, above a bum in the street, until those three words hit me like a twelve gauge shotgun. Don't we all? I needed help. Maybe not for bus fare or a place to sleep, but I needed help. I reached in my wallet and gave him not only enough for bus fare, but enough to take a cab anywhere in the city and get food and shelter for the day. Those three little words still ring true. No matter how much you have, no matter how much you have accomplished, you need help too. No matter how little you have, no matter how loaded you are with problems, even without money or a place to sleep, you can give help. Even if it's just a compliment, you can give that. You never know when you may see someone that appears to have it all. They are waiting on you to give them what they don't have. A different perspective on life, a glimpse at something beautiful, a respite from daily chaos, that only you through a torn world can see. Maybe the man was just a homeless stranger wandering the streets. Maybe he was more than that. Maybe he was sent by a power that is great and wise, to minister to a soul too comfortable in themselves. Maybe God looked down, called an Angel, dressed him like a bum, then said, "go minister to that man cleaning the Jeep, that man needs help." Don't we all? »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

Welcome back Fred. :-) kath > Subscribe > Please Visit our Amputee Support Web Site at http://ampsupport.com >

lol can't say i have not enjoyed the brake.. samantha is coming soon!! can't wait got my pics from trip back ill send you the only one im in.. lol love u missi > > > > > > Thank you Missi. :-) > I don't mind the bounces. (I'm the worst offender.) LOL~! :-) > ( I average about 3a day when I post a lot. ) <boing-ee-boing> > How did you put up with me~? <BG> :-) > It's not bad with the cable modem. Don't have to wait for them to > download. > No worries Matey~! :-) > {{{{{{{{{{{Missi}}}}}}}}}}}}} > love you > kaffie > > > yuck ill take it back any time ya want kaffie > > your a sweetie thanks for all u do hun. > > kisses > > missi > >

> Special Delivery > > "We need a wheelchair," the familiar voice on the telephone > told me. Not an unusual request, because it was Dr. Charles > Shellenberger, a retired physician I know who for many years has > been living his dream as a volunteer, helping meet medical needs > of people of all ages in countries around the world. In my > work, he has called on me often over the past years with similar > requests. > Dr. Shellenberger explained in further detail, however, > what made this request unusual: "This wheelchair is for an > older man with no feet and legs, and it needs plenty of room in > the back and seat." > As the executive director of an association of more than > one hundred churches, I pass requests like this on to > individuals and groups in our association who can help. In this > case, I called the chairman of our ministry that supplies > medical equipment. The chairman, E. J. Culp, is another one of > our active, energetic volunteers in the golden age group who > take great satisfaction and pride in working for a good cause. > Within one week, E. J. and his group had used parts from two > older wheelchairs to make one wheelchair meeting Dr. > Shellenberger's specifications. > When I delivered the wheelchair, Dr. Shellenberger provided > more information. "Paul, I will be taking this chair with me > when our group goes to Siberia." I didn't want to appear > skeptical, question his enthusiasm or sound like a doubting > Thomas, so I simply said, "Great! We'll be praying for you and > your church group on this trip to Siberia." > But privately I wondered, "How in the world are they going > to get that wheelchair from here to their remote destination?" > Since I had traveled to that part of the world, I knew from > experience the obstacles, hassles and other "red tape" of taking > unusual items through customs. > Their ingenious plan was soon revealed to me. One of the > members of the volunteer group was pregnant. Dr. Shellenberger, > always known for his resourcefulness, simply wrote out a > statement, much like a prescription, for the airline and customs > officials explaining that the condition of the expectant mother > required her to ride in the wheelchair through the airports > between connecting flights, which, of course, would necessitate > her having the wheelchair aboard the flights. > All the airlines were very cooperative in meeting the > special needs of this expectant mother, as she conscientiously > followed "doctor's orders" all the way to Siberia! No one > questioned the radiant and rested expectant mother, and getting > through customs was an absolute breeze. > After arriving in Siberia, the group traveled to the remote > village that was the location of their work assignment. Just to > be on the safe side, all the while, the expectant mother took > her dutiful place in the wheelchair. As they approached the > place where they knew the older gentleman would be sitting on > the ground begging for food, excited anticipation filled each > member of the group. The expectant mother maneuvered herself up > beside him and stepped energetically away from the wheelchair. > Several men picked up the double amputee and placed him in the > specially prepared wheelchair. > With very little instruction, the overwhelmed man soon was > proudly navigating the wheelchair everywhere - his sense of > independence and dignity soaring! Now he was as radiant as the > wheelchair's prior occupant. > When people ask the Siberian gentleman how he got this > wheelchair, he replies with a smile, "Special delivery." > > By Paul Stripling > Reprinted by permission of Paul Stripling (c) 2000, from Chicken > Soup for the Golden Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, > Paul J. Meyer, Barbara Russell Chesser and Amy Seegar. > > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

> > > HELLO DAY > > "Hello! I just wanted to tell you that you do an incredible job > keeping this place clean," I told the maintenance man in the mall food > court. I think I shocked him. He looked up and pausing for a moment said, > "Well, thank you. I really appreciate that." > I believe he did. > I've done this all of my life. I go out of my way to make a comment > to someone or to break an awkward silence in a moment that finds us > speechless. I compliment people for their work who are normally taken for > granted, over looked, by passed, ignored or unappreciated. > Yesterday, I challenged myself to speak to as many strangers as I > could in a short period of time. I complimented them, I chit chatted, or I > simply said "Hello!" And I said, "Thanks, my friend." I picked that up > from Bill Cosby's son who was killed a few years back in California. Bill > said that his son always greeted people that way. > So, I've created what I call "Hello Day." > This idea came about because of the story I had written recently, "I > Wish You Enough." My focus was on how difficult it is for me to say > "Goodbye." The response to that story was simply amazing. Some people > wrote to me to share regrets over lost opportunities to tell someone > goodbye. Some wrote to thank me for making them more aware. Some adopted > the idea and promised to start using the phrase, "I wish you enough," > whenever they said so long. > I am asked many times how I get to meet so many wonderful people. > It's simply because I say "Hello" first. > The final line in the piece I wrote says, > "I wish enough 'Hello's' to get you through the final 'Goodbye.'" > So my "Hello Day" was created to make the final goodbye easier > knowing that so many people have touched my life. > My first day at the mall was a success. After telling the maintenance > man he was doing a great job, I walked over to the lady who served me my > slice of pizza and told her how incredible it was. Her face lit up and her > smile was worth the cost of lunch. I'd pay to see it again. > I then walked over to the newsstand. Buying a pack of gum, I > scrambled to find something to say. Looking down, I saw a counter display > for an herbal energy bar that said, "The herbal bar that works." > I asked if I could purchase the kind that doesn't work. He smiled and > said, "You know some advertising guru is driving a Mercedes because he gets > paid to come up with witty lines like that. You and I have to work for a > living." > We both laughed. I said, "Thanks, my friend." Then walked away. I > watched the man for a moment and that smile stayed with him even though the > next four people never said a word to him. > So here's my challenge to you. Pick one day a week and declare it > your "Hello Day." See how many people you can say hello to, make a comment > to, compliment, or enlighten. When you get comfortable enough with the > idea, challenge yourself to speak to as many people as you can in the > shortest period of time. > You'll look like the mayor of the town. You'll shine like a star. > And you'll feel like a million. > > -- Bob Perks »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

> > The Movers and the Gentleman > > The day began like any other moving job in the city. The > moving crew was on the job at the agreed upon time, 8:30 a.m. > After introducing themselves to the customer and a brief > tour of the residence to assess the plan for loading, the old > gentleman asked them if they would like some coffee. The men, > charging by the hour, declined his offer. He smiled at their > honesty and gestured to them to continue. > The old house had a redolent fragrance of musty rose > petals. The bereaved seventy-nine-year old husband merely > watched and quietly chatted and quipped with the young-strong > men as they went about their work. It was obvious he was lonely > and welcomed the rather captive audience into his home. Even > under the albeit necessary circumstances of having to move to > the nursing care facility, their presence heartened him. > The young men were kind to the old gentleman, tolerating > his rather one-sided conversation. Occasionally, they had to > ask him to 'move to one side' while they removed furniture and > memories all at one time right before him. > In a way he was as glad to be leaving the house which > really had no relevant significance for him anymore since his > partner of sixty-two-years had died two years ago. He found > peace each day in prayer. The responsibilities for his care > would be a welcomed solace. > The hours sped by and the house became but a shell of past > occupancy. Upon near completion of the job one of the movers > went through the house to check each room to make sure nothing > had been left behind. In the upstairs bedroom under a small > alcove there was a chest almost imperceptible because it was the > same wood hue as the paneling on the wall behind it. When he > started to remove it, the entire contents fell through the > bottom of the chest. Papers were strewn all over the floor, > along with photos. He began to collect everything into some > semblance of order when a yellowed newspaper clipping caught his > eye: TWIN BOYS DIE IN BOATING ACCIDENT. After quickly scanning > the article, he learned that they were indeed the old > gentleman's sons, lost to him and his wife forever over three > decades ago. > When the movers had completed the move, the man thanked > them for their diligence and careful concern for his precious > belongings. He told them that their kindness to him was more > appreciated than they could ever realize. > Six months later, almost to the day of the move, the > gentleman died. In his will, he left his entire fortune of one > and a half million dollars to the "Two movers who were so kind > and reminded me of my own sons." > > By Barbara Chase-Pace > Reprinted by permission of Barbara Chase-Pace (c) 1998, from A > 6th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark > Victor Hansen. > > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

LUTHER'S LUMBER Luther had been home from the war nearly four months, now, and worked at the Carnation Milk plant in Mt. Vernon where his wife, Jenny, worked. This morning he was in the little Miller cafe next door to the post office waiting for the mail to be "put up". Sitting across from him in the booth was his old friend, Fred Hill. They were discussing the war which was still going on in the Pacific Theatre. Recruitment posters still lined the walls of the little cafe. Fred had not been in the service, because when the war started in 1941, his parents had been in very poor health; his father with a bad heart, and his mother with cancer. He was needed at home to care for them and operate the farm. His parents had since died, and the farm was now his -- his and Maggie's. When Luther, Fred's best friend since childhood, had flown over Miller in the B-17, and when the bodies of the Hobbs boys and Billie Martin had been shipped home, and when Perry came home with hooks where his hands should have been, Fred felt guilty. He felt he had not done his part for the war effort, and in his own eyes, he was diminished. But today, it was Luther who seemed depressed. Fred asked him what was bothering him. "You seem down in the dumps, today, Luther," he said. "I can't see what could be botherin' you. You came through the war without a scratch, you got a beautiful wife and a baby on the way, you got a good job, what's the problem?" "Jenny's mother is in bad shape," said Luther. "We're going to have to take her in, and with the baby coming we don't have the room." "Can't build a room on?" asked Fred. "No lumber available," said Luther. "I've tried here, Mt. Vernon, Springfield, Joplin, and there won't be any more shipments for the duration. Who knows how long that will be?" "Tried Will's sawmill?" "Yeah, but he just saws oak, and it's green. The baby'll be here in August, and we can't wait for the lumber to dry. Besides, you can't build a whole room out of oak, anyway." "Wouldn't want to," said Fred. "Reckon the mail's up?" "Probably." The two young men left the cafe and went into the post office next door. Buford Patten, the postmaster, had raised the door to the service window, signaling that the mail was in the boxes. Luther and Fred retrieved their mail and left -- Luther to work at Mt. Vernon, and Fred back to the farm. That evening, Fred finished the milking and sat on the front porch with Maggie. "Days are gettin' longer," he said. "Man could get half a day's work done after five o'clock." "Better put your Pa's car up," said Maggie. "Radio says rain tonight." Fred's father had bought a new 1941 Ford just before his first heart attack, and the car was now Fred's. He had built a new garage for it just before Christmas, and tonight he congratulated himself on getting it built before the lumber ran out. He didn't even know it had, until Luther told him this morning. Fred drove the car into the new garage and latched the door. He walked back around the house to the front porch. Something was nagging at his mind, but he couldn't define it. He shook it off and sat on the porch with Maggie until darkness fell. They could see heat lightning in the West, and the wind started to rise. They went in the house to listen to the news of the war on the radio, and shortly went to bed. The next morning, Fred again drove his pickup into Miller for the mail. The air was fresh and clear now, the rain having washed it clean. The sun was shining, and he felt good. When he reached the cafe, Luther was there ahead of him. "Still haven't found any lumber, I guess?" "No, I asked everybody at work, and nobody knows of any. I don't know what we'll do." Now the nagging in Fred's mind defined itself. "I found the lumber for you," he said. "You did? Where?" Luther was delighted. "Fella I know. He'll let you have it free, you bein' a veteran and all. He doesn't seem to want you to know who he is, so I'll have to haul it in for you. It's good lumber, fir and pine, cut different lengths and got nails in it, but that's no problem. Tell you what, you get your foundation poured, and I'll bring you a pickup load everyday and help you build it. We'll have it done before the baby gets here." "That's a friend for you," Luther said to himself, as he drove to Mt. Vernon. That evening he came home with sacks of cement in his pickup. Luther dug and poured the foundation, and when it was ready for the footings, he told Fred. "Fine," said Fred, "I'll bring the first load over and be there when you get home from work." Fred appeared every evening with a load of lumber, and the two men worked until it was too dark to see. Sometimes Maggie came too, and the women sat in the house listening to the radio or talking about babies or Jenny's ailing mother, their sentences punctuated by the sound of the hammers outside. Over the next few weeks the new room took shape and was finished and roofed. "Where did you get the shingles?" asked Luther. "Same fella," answered Fred. "He's got all kinds of stuff." Luther didn't push. Lots of older folks liked to help out the young veterans anonymously. It was common. It was done! The women fixed the room up inside, and moved Jenny's mother in. The men went back about their business. At supper one evening, Luther told Jenny he would like to do something nice for Fred and Maggie, since they had been so helpful with the new room. "I know," said Jenny, brightly. "Maggie likes those big wooden lawn chairs like Aunt Birdie has on her lawn. Why not get them a couple of those?" "Good idea," agreed Luther, and the next Saturday he bought a couple at Callison's hardware and loaded them into his pickup. When he got out to Fred's farm, there was no one home, Fred and Maggie having gone into Springfield, shopping. "That's ok," Luther thought, "I'll just put them in the garage in case it rains." He drove around the house and into the driveway that led to Fred's new garage. The garage was gone. Only the foundation remained to show where it had been. Luther put the chairs on the front porch and drove home, tears in his eyes. The two men are now in their mid-seventies, and are still the best of friends. They never spoke of the incident. How could they? There was nothing to say. -- Joe Edwards »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

:P brat! love you missi > A brunette, who decided blondes really do have more > fun, went to the salon to get a bleach job. When > she got home, her husband admired her new blonde > locks. "Thanks, honey," she said. "I hope you realise how > much pain and suffering I had to go through to > become a blonde." > "Pain and suffering?" said her husband. "How much > pain can there be in becoming a blonde?" > "That was the easy part," said the new blonde. > "What hurt was when they drilled the hole in my >

> Once upon a time there was a child ready to be born. > > The child asked God, "They tell me you are sending me > to earth tomorrow, but how am I going to live there > being so small and helpless?" > > God replied, "Among the many angels, I chose one. > Your angel will be waiting for you and will take care > of you." > > The child further inquired, "But tell me, here in > heaven I don't have to do anything but sing and smile > to be happy." > > God said, "Your angel will sing for you and will also > smile for you everyday. And you will feel your angel's > love and be very happy." > > Again the child asked, "And how am I going to be able > to understand when people talk to me if I don't know > the language?" > > God said, "Your angel will tell you the most beautiful > and sweet words you will ever hear, and with much > patience and care, your angel will teach you how to > speak." > > "And what am I going to do when I want to talk to > you?" > > God said, "Your angel will place your hands together > and will teach you how to pray." > > "I've heard that on Earth there are bad men. Who will > protect me?" > > God said, "Your angel will defend you even if it means > risking it's life." > > "But I will always be sad because I will not see you > anymore." > > God said, "Your angel will always talk to you about me > and will teach you the way to come back to me, even > though I will always be next to you." > > At that moment there was much peace in heaven, but > voices from Earth could be heard and the child > hurriedly asked, "God, if I am to leave now, please > tell me my angel's name." > > "Her name is not important. You will simply call her > "Mom"." > > «¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤» > > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

Brain Test - http://www.flowgo.com/page.cfm?l=3762 <A HREF="http://www.flowgo.com/page.cfm?l=3762">AOL </A> »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

Wrinkles I was ironing my husband's shirts the other day, a chore which is not glamorous nor one which I seek with great anticipation. It is one, however, I do with love - for him. He does not care for the finish which comes on shirts taken to the laundry , so I spend a little time each week ironing. If I sprinkle the shirts, roll them up and place them in a plastic bag in the refrigerator overnight, they press very well. But if I am lazy, and just use the steam iron, the result is not quite as satisfactory. I thought about my life, and how I have tried to iron out problems that have cropped up over the years. I thought about the way I like to have a plan, ironing out any foreseeable wrinkle that may appear. I thought about grief I have experienced, and how unable I was to iron out the deep creases of sadness they left in my heart. I remembered my many moments of fear -- for my family and myself -- and how I was unable to iron out fear from entering my mind. There is a master ironer, however, who never leaves creases of fear, grief, problems or preplanning in our lives. He can iron out every one of them to perfection, and He steps up to the job with a smile on His face. He picks up His iron of love and begins to work on the wrinkles of our lives. He does so with great compassion, as His love strokes go back and forth across the material of our lives. His name is Jesus, and He is not content to just give us the "steam iron" treatment. He will work us out into perfection, for it says in the Bible that " he who has begun a good work in you will not quit till the day of completion." He just keeps ironing, working those wrinkles of helpless and hopelessness out of our lives. I am thankful I have turned my wrinkled self over to Him -- for I know he can get the job done - and done perfectly! Contributed by Marion Smith «¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤»¥«¤»§«¤» »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

The Day I Finally Cried I didn't cry when I learned I was the parent of a mentally handicapped child. I just sat still and didn't say anything while my husband and I were informed that two-year-old Kristi was - as we suspected - retarded. "Go ahead and cry," the doctor advised kindly. "Helps prevent serious emotional difficulties." Serious difficulties notwithstanding, I couldn't cry then nor during the months that followed. When Kristi was old enough to attend school, we enrolled her in our neighborhood school's kindergarten at age seven. It would have been comforting to cry the day I left her in that room full of self-assured, eager, alert five-year-olds. Kristi had spent hour upon hour playing by herself, but this moment, when she was the "different" child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever known. However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her school, and to her schoolmates, too. When boasting of their own accomplishments, Kristi's classmates always took pains to praise her as well: "Kristi got all her spelling words right today." No one bothered to add that her spelling list was easier than anyone else's. During Kristi's second year in school, she faced a very traumatic experience. The big public event of the term was a competition based on a culmination of the year's music and physical education activities. Kristi was way behind in both music and motor coordination. My husband and I dreaded the day as well. On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to be sick. Desperately I wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi fail in a gymnasium filled with parents, students and teachers? What a simple solution it would be just to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn't matter. But my conscience wouldn't let me off that easily. So I practically shoved a pale, reluctant Kristi onto the school bus and proceeded to be sick myself. Just as I had forced my daughter to go to school, now I forced myself to go to the program. It seemed that it would never be time for Kristi's group to perform. When at last they did, I knew why Kristi had been worried. Her class was divided into relay teams. With her limp and slow, clumsy reactions, she would surely hold up her team. The performance went surprisingly well, though, until it was time for the gunnysack race. Now each child had to climb into a sack from a standing position, hop to a goal line, return and climb out of the sack. I watched Kristi standing near the end of her line of players, looking frantic. But as Kristi's turn to participate neared, a change took place in her team. The tallest boy in the line stepped behind Kristi and placed his hands on her waist. Two other boys stood a little ahead of her. The moment the player in front of Kristi stepped from the sack, those two boys grabbed the sack and held it open while the tall boy lifted Kristi and dropped her neatly into it. A girl in front of Kristi took her hand and supported her briefly until Kristi gained her balance. Then off she hopped, smiling and proud. Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and parents, I crept off by myself to thank God for the warm, understanding people in life who make it possible for my disabled daughter to be like her fellow human beings. Then I finally cried. By Meg Hill Reprinted by permission of Meg Hill (c) 1999, from Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Heather McNamara. »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«

:) thank you :) > You are a great motivator in your own right, as is Missi. I > will take it upon myself to SALUTE you two for your efforts on Folklore. It > has added a new dimension to my life. You can come out of your self- > appointed time out, and know I was never upset. XX_OO

Hello Cliff. Welcome to Folklore~! :-) Kath Washington State

I have finally learned how to upload signatures into my mail program to use on individual letters. I don't have the place checked that sends an automatic signature with each letter. I followed the directions on my help screen for this technique. I typed a letter. Hit insert. Clicked on one of my 11 (!!) signatures I saved, and a prompt came up saying: Warning: The signature file specified is not a valid text file. The signature feature has been disabled. Do you have a clue as to the problem? The files I uploaded are not just my name, but antimation too. Would that make a difference? I hope not, as this is what I want to use. Thanks ever so much. Cece

- With Karaoke, you're always sure you can find someone worse than you are. - You don't feel obligated to buy someone dinner for singing Karaoke with you. - When you sing Karaoke, it's OK to have multiple partners. - It's OK to sing Karaoke with your sister. - With Karaoke, you never have to be sorry about forgetting your lines. - It's OK to drink too much and sing Karaoke. - With Karaoke, no one will complain about the size of your microphone. - It's OK to sing Karaoke in front of your neighbors. - You'll never feel uncomfortable knowing your parents still sing Karaoke. - No one complains about a 3-minute Karaoke performance. If you dont stand for something, you'll fall for anything....... _______________________________________________________ Send a cool gift with your E-Card http://www.bluemountain.com/giftcenter/