from New York City, on a cold day in December...Hopefully, this is the kind of thing that happens frequently,
everywhere.....
A little boy about 10 years old was standing before a shoe store on
Broadway, barefooted, peering through the window, and shivering with cold. A
lady approached the boy and said, "My little fellow, why are you looking so
earnestly in that window?"
"I was asking God to give me a pair of shoes," was the boys reply.
The lady took him by the hand and went into the store, and asked the clerk
to get half a dozen pairs of socks for the boy. She then asked if he could
give her a basin of water and a towel he quickly brought them to her.
She took the little fellow to the back part of the store and, removing her
gloves, knelt down, washed his little feet and dried them with a towel. By
this time the clerk had returned with the socks. Placing a pair upon the
boy's feet, she purchased him a pair of shoes, and tying up the remaining
pairs of socks, gave them to him. She patted him on the head and said, "No
doubt, my little fellow, you feel more comfortable now?"
As she turned to go, the astonished lad caught her by the hand, and looking
up in her face, with tears in his eyes, answered the question with these words
"Are you God's Wife?
The Chair
A man's daughter had asked the local priest to come and pray with her father. When the priest arrived, he found the man lying in bed with his head propped up on two pillows and an empty chair beside his bed. The priest assumed that the old fellow had been informed of his visit.
"I guess you were expecting me," he said.
"No, who are you?"
"I'm the new associate at your parish," the priest replied. "When I saw the empty chair, I figured you knew I was going to show up."
"Oh yeah, the chair," said the bedridden man. "Would you mind closing the door?" Puzzled, the priest shut the door.
"I have never told anyone this, not even my daughter," said the man. "But all of my life I have never know how to pray. At the Sunday Mass I used to hear the pastor talk about prayer, but it always went right over my head.." "I abandoned any attempt at prayer," the old man continued, "until one day about four years ago my best friend said to me, 'Joe, prayer is just a simple matter of having a conversation with Jesus. Here's what I suggest. Sit down in a chair, place an empty chair in front of you, and in faith see Jesus on the chair. It's not spooky because he promised, 'I'll be with you always.' Then just speak to him and listen in the same way you're doing with me right now."
"So, Father, I tried it and I've liked it so much that I do it a couple of hours every day. I'm careful, though. If my daughter saw me talking to an empty chair, she'd either have a nervous breakdown or send me off to the funny farm." The priest was deeply moved by the story and encouraged the old guy to continue on the journey. Then he prayed with him, anointed him with oil, and returned to the rectory.
Two nights later the daughter called to tell the priest that her daddy had died that afternoon. "Did he seem to die in peace?" he asked.
"Yes, when I left the house around two o'clock, he called me over to his bedside, told me one of his corny jokes, and kissed me on the cheek. When I got back from the store an hour later, I found him dead. But there was something strange, Father. In fact, beyond strange - kinda weird. Apparently, just before Daddy died, he leaned over and rested his head on the chair beside the bed
The Apple.......
On a cold day in 1942, inside a Nazi concentration camp,
a lone, young boy looks beyond the barbed wire and sees a young girl pass by.
She too, is moved by his presence. In an effort to give expression to her
feelings, she throws a red apple over the fence -- a sign of life, hope,
and love. The young boy bends over, picks up the apple. A ray of light has
pierced his darkness.
The following day, thinking he is crazy for even entertaining
the notion of seeing this young girl again, he looks out beyond the
fence, hoping. On the other side of the barbed wire, the young girl yearns to see
again this tragic figure who moved her so. She comes prepared with apple in hand.
Despite another day of wintry blizzards and chilling air, two hearts are
warmed once again as the apple passes over the barbed wire. The scene is repeated for several days. The two young spirits on opposite sides of the fence look forward to seeing each
other, if only for a moment and if only to exchange a few words. The interaction is always accompanied by an exchange of inexplicably heartening feelings.
At the last of these momentary meetings, the young boy
greets his sweet friend with a frown and says, "Tomorrow,
don't bring me an apple, I will not be here. They are sending me to another
camp." The young boy walks away, too heartbroken to look back.
From that day forward, the calming image of the sweet girl would
appear to him in moments of anguish. Her eyes, her words, her thoughtfulness, her
red apple, all were a recurring vision that would break his night time sweats.
His family died in the war. The life he had known had all but vanished,
but this one memory remained alive and gave him hope.
In 1957 in the United States, two adults, both immigrants,
are set up on a blind date. "And where were you during
the war?" inquires the woman. " I was in a concentration camp in Germany,"
the man replies. "I remember I used to throw apples over the fence to a
boy who was in a concentration camp," she recalls.
With a feeling of shock, the man speaks. "And did that boy say to you one
day, "Don't bring an apple anymore because I am being sent to another camp?'"
"Why, yes," she responds, "but how could you possibly know that?"
"He looks into her eyes and says, " I was that young boy."
There is a brief silence, and then he continues, " I was
separated from you then, and I don't ever want to be without you again.
Will you marry me?"
They embrace one another as she says, "Yes."
On Valentine's Day 1996, on national telecast of the Oprah
Winfrey show, this same man affirmed his enduring love to his wife of
forty years. " You fed me in the concentration camp,"
he said, "you fed me throughout all these years; now, I remain hungry if
only for your love."
The darkest monents of one's life may carry the seeds of the brightest
tomorrow
The Wallet
As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had
lost in the street. I picked it up and looked inside to find some
identification so I could call the owner. But the wallet contained only
three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in
there for years.
The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on it
was the return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find
some clue. Then I saw the dateline--1924. The letter had been written
almost sixty years ago.
It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting on powder blue
stationery with a little flower in the left-hand corner. It was a "Dear
John" letter that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael,
that the writer could not see him any more because her mother forbade
it. Even so, she wrote that she would always love him.
It was signed, Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way except for the
name Michael, that the owner could be identified. Maybe if I called
information, the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope.
"Operator," I began, "this is an unusual request. I'm trying to
find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is there anyway you can tell me
if there is a phone number for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?"
She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for a
moment then said, "Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I
can't give you the number." She said, as a courtesy, she would call that
number, explain my story and would ask them if they wanted her to
connect me. I waited a few minutes and then she was back on the line. "I
have a party who will speak with you."
I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she knew anyone
by the name of Hannah. She gasped, "Oh! We bought this house from a
family who had a daughter named Hannah. But that was 30 years ago!"
"Would you know where that family could be located now?" I asked.
"I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home
some years ago," the woman said. "Maybe if you got in touch with them
they might be able to track down the daughter."
She gave me the name of the nursing home and I called the number.
They told me the old lady had passed away some years ago but they did
have a phone number for where they thought the daughter might be living.
I thanked them and phoned. The woman who answered explained that
Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.
This whole thing was stupid, I thought to myself. Why was I making
such a big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that had only three
dollars and a letter that was almost 60 years old?
Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was
supposed to be living and the man who answered the phone told me, "Yes,
Hannah is staying with us. "
Even though it was already 10 p.m., I asked if I could come by to
see her. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "if you want to take a chance, she
might be in the day room watching television."
I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The night nurse
and a guard greeted me at the door. We went up to the third floor of the
large building. In the day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah.
She was a sweet, silver-haired old timer with a warm smile and a
twinkle in her eye.
I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The
second she saw the powder blue envelope with that little flower on the
left, she took a deep breath and said, "Young man, this letter was the
last contact I ever had with Michael."
She looked away for a moment deep in thought and then said Softly,
"I loved him very much. But I was only 16 at the time and my mother felt
I was too young. Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery,
the actor."
"Yes," she continued. "Michael Goldstein was a wonderful person.
If you should find him, tell him I think of him often. And," she
hesitated for a moment, almost biting her lip, "tell him I still love
him. You know," she said smiling as tears began to well up in her eyes,
"I never did marry. I guess no one ever matched up to Michael..."
I thanked Hannah and said good-bye. I took the elevator to the
first floor and as I stood by the door, the guard there asked, "Was the
old lady able to help you?"
I told him she had given me a lead. "At least I have a last name.
But I think I'll let it go for a while. I spent almost the whole day
trying to find the owner of this wallet."
I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather case
with red lacing on the side. When the guard saw it, he said, "Hey, wait
a minute! That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet. I'd know it anywhere with that
right red lacing. He's always losing that wallet. I must have found it
in the halls at least three times."
"Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I asked as my hand began to shake.
"He's one of the old timers on the 8th floor. That's Mike
Goldstein's wallet for sure. He must have lost it on one of his walks."
I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the nurse's office. I
told her what the guard had said. We went back to the elevator and got
on. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.
On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, "I think he's still in
the day room. He likes to read at night. He's a darling old man."
We went to the only room that had any lights on and there was a
man reading a book. The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost
his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise, put his hand in his
back pocket and said, "Oh, it is missing!"
"This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if it could be yours?"
I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet and the second he saw it, he
smiled with relief and said, "Yes, that's it! It must have dropped out
of my pocket this afternoon. I want to give you a reward."
"No, thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you something. I read
the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet."
The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. "You read that letter?"
"Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."
He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is
she still as pretty as she was? Please, please tell me," he begged.
"She's fine...just as pretty as when you knew her." I said softly.
The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, "Could you tell me
where she is? I want to call her tomorrow." He grabbed my hand and said,
"You know something, mister, I was so in love with that girl that when
that letter came, my life literally ended. I never married. I guess I've
always loved her. "
"Mr. Goldstein," I said, "come with me."
We took the elevator down to the third floor. The hallways were
darkened and only one or two little night-lights lit our way to the day
room where Hannah was sitting alone watching the television. The nurse
walked over to her.
"Hannah," she said softly, pointing to Michael, who was waiting
with me in the doorway. "Do you know this man?"
She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn't say a
word. Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, "Hannah, it's Michael.
Do you remember me?"
She gasped, "Michael! I don't believe it! Michael! It's you! My
Michael!"
He walked slowly towards her and they embraced. The nurse and I
left with tears streaming down our faces.
"See," I said. "See how the Good Lord works! If it's meant to be,
it will be."
About three weeks later I got a call at my office from the nursing
home. "Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and
Hannah are going to tie the knot!"
It was a beautiful wedding with all the people at the nursing home
dressed up to join in the celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress
and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They
made me their best man.
The hospital gave them their own room and if you ever wanted to
see a 76-year-old bride and a 79-year-old groom acting like two
teenagers, you had to see this couple.
A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years.
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in
Morris, Minnesota. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund
was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that
happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischievousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that talking
without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though,
was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving -
"Thank you for correcting me, Sister!"
I didn't know what to make of it at first, but before long I became
accustomed to hearing it many times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often,
and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at Mark and said, "If you
say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"
It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again."
I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but
since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.
I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my
desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking tape.
Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and
made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room.
As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it!!
I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk,
removed the tape, and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, "Thank you for
correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year, I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years
flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more
handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to my
instruction in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he
had in third. One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on
a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning,
frustrated with themselves - and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness
before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other
students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name.
Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of
their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to
finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed
me the papers. Charlie smiled.
Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend."
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of
paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On
Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class
was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that meant anything to
anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much." No one ever mentioned
those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them after class or
with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose.
The students were happy with themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned from
vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother
asked me the usual questions about the trip - the weather, my experiences in
general. There was a lull in the conversation.
Mother gave Dad a side-ways glance and simply says, "Dad?" My father
cleared his throat as he usually did before something important. "The Eklunds called
last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in years.
I wonder how Mark is."
Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The funeral
is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend."
To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me
about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so
handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark I would
give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The Battle
Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was
difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers, and
the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the
coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. I was the last one to bless the
coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came
up to me. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued
to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a lot," he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chuck's farm
house for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me.
"We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket.
"They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper
that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew
without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good
things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see,
Mark treasured it."
Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather
sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home."
Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album."
"I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her
wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me
at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I think we all saved our lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his
friends who would never see him again.
THE END
The purpose of this letter is to encourage everyone to compliment the people
you love and care about. We often tend to forget the importance of showing our
affections and love. Sometimes the smallest of things, could mean the most to
another. I am asking you, to please send this letter around and spread the
message and encouragement, to express your love and caring by complimenting
and being open with communication. The density of people in society is so thick
that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one
day will be. So please, I beg of you, to tell the people you love and care for,
that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.
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