As a young man, Al was a skilled artist, a potter. He had a wife and two fine sons.    One night, his oldest son developed a severe stomachache. Thinking it was only some common intestinal disorder, neither Al nor his wife took the condition very seriously.
    But the malady was actually acute appendicitis, and the boy died suddenly that night. 

    Knowing the death could have been prevented if he had only realized the seriousness     of the situation, Al's emotional health deteriorated under the enormous burden of his     guilt. To make matters worse his wife left him a short time later, leaving him alone with his six-year-old younger son. The hurt and pain of the two situations were more than Al could handle, and he turned to alcohol to help him cope. In time Al became an alcoholic. 

    As the alcoholism progressed, Al began to lose everything he 
possessed - his home,his land, his art objects, everything. Eventually Al died alone in a San Francisco motel room. 

    When I heard of Al's death, I reacted with the same disdain the world shows for one who ends his life with nothing material to show for it. "What a complete failure!" I thought. "What a totally wasted life!" 

    As time went by, I began to re-evaluate my earlier harsh judgment. You see, I knew Al's now adult son, Ernie. He is one of the kindest, most caring, most loving men I have ever known. I watched Ernie with his children and saw the free flow of love between them. I knew that kindness and caring had to come from somewhere. 

    I hadn't heard Ernie talk much about his father. It is so hard to defend an alcoholic. One day I worked up my courage to ask him. "I'm really puzzled by something," I said. "I know your father was basically the only one to raise you. What on earth did he do that you became such a special person?" 

    Ernie sat quietly and reflected for a few moments. Then he said, "From my earliest memories as a child until I left home at 18, Al came into my room every night, gave me a kiss and said, `I love you, son.'" 

    Tears came to my eyes as I realized what a fool I had been to judge Al as a failure. He had not left any material possessions behind. But he had been a kind loving father, and he left behind one of the finest, most giving men I have ever known. 

    My son Joey was born with club feet. The doctors assured us that with treatment he
    would be able to walk normally - but would never run very well. The first three years
    of his life were spent in surgery, casts and braces. By the time he was eight, you
    wouldn't know he had a problem when you saw him walk. 

    The children in our neighborhood ran around as most children do during play, and
    Joey would jump right in and run and play, too. We never told him that he probably
    wouldn't be able to run as well as the other children. So he didn't know. 

    In seventh grade he decided to go out for the cross-country team. Every day he trained
    with the team. He worked harder and ran more than any of the others - perhaps he
    sensed that the abilities that seemed to come naturally to so many others did not come
    naturally to him. Although the entire team runs, only the top seven runners have the
    potential to score points for the school. We didn't tell him he probably would never
    make the team, so he didn't know. 

    He continued to run four to five miles a day, every day - even the day he had a
    103-degree fever. I was worried, so I went to look for him after school. I found him
    running all alone. I asked him how he felt. "Okay," he said. He had two more miles to
    go. The sweat ran down his face and his eyes were glassy from his fever. Yet he
    looked straight ahead and kept running. We never told him he couldn't run four miles
    with a 103-degree fever. So he didn't know. 

    Two weeks later, the names of the team runners were called. Joey was number six on
    the list. Joey had made the team. He was in seventh grade - the other six team
    members were all eighth-graders. We never told him he shouldn't expect to make the
    team. We never told him he couldn't do it. We never told him he couldn't do it...so he
    didn't know. He just did it.

He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's
School in
Morris, Minn. 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 mis-chieviousness
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 him 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 instructions in the "new math," he did not talk as much in
ninth grade
as he had in the 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 he
class period to finish the assignment, and as the students left
the room,
each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. Marked 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 light 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 had 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 Chucks farmhouse 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 this
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. 

-- Sister Helen P. Mrosia

An emperor was coming out of his palace for his morning walk
when he met a beggar. He asked the beggar, "What do you want?" 

The beggar laughed and said, "You are asking me as though you
can fulfill my desire!" 

The king was offended. He said, "Of course I can fulfill your
desire. What is it? Just tell me." 

And the beggar said, "Think twice before you promise anything."

The beggar was no ordinary beggar, he was the emporers past
life master. He had promised in that life, "I will come and try to wake you
in your next life. This life you have missed but I will come again."
But the king had forgotten completely -- who remembers past lives? So he
insisted, "I will fulfill anything you ask. I am a very powerful emperor,
what can you possibly desire that I can not give to you?" 

The beggar said, "It is a very simple desire. You see this
begging bowl? Can you fill it with something?" 

The emperor said, "Of course!" He called one of his viziers and
told him, "Fill this mans begging bowl with money." The vizier went and
got some money and poured it into the bowl, and it disappeared. And he
poured more and more, and the moment he would pour it, it would disappear.
And the begging bowl remained always empty. 

The whole palace gathered. By and by the rumor went throughout
the whole capital, and a huge crowd gathered. The prestige of the emperor
was at stake. He said to his viziers, "If the whole kingdom is lost, I
am ready to lose it, but I cannot be defeated by this beggar." 

Diamonds and pearls and emeralds, his treasuries were becoming
empty.The begging bowl seemed to be bottomless. Everything that was put
into it -- everything! -- immediately disappeared, went out of existence.
Finally it was the evening, and the people were standing there in utter
silence. The king dropped at the feet of the beggar and admitted his defeat.
he said, "Just tell me one thing. You are victorious - but before you
leave, just fulfill my curiousity. What is the begging bowl made of?" 

The beggar laughed and said, "It is made up of the human mind.
There is no secret. It is simple made up of human desire." 

This understanding transforms life. Go into one desire -- what
is the mechanism of it? First there is a great excitement, great
thrill, adventure. You feel a great kick. Something is going to happen,
you are on the verge of it. And then you have the car, you have the yacht,
you have the house, you have the woman, and suddenly all is meaningless again. 

What happens? Your mind has dematerialised it. The car is
standing in the drive, but there is no excitement anymore. The excitement was
only in getting it. You became so drunk with the desire that you forgot
your inner nothingness. Now the desire is fulfilled, the car in the drive,
the woman in your bed, the money in your bank account - again excitement
disappears. Again the emptiness is there, ready to eat you up. Again you
have to create another desire to escape this yawning abyss. 

That's how one moves from one desire to another desire. That's
how one remains a beggar. Your whole life proves it again and again --
every desire frustrates. And when the goal is achieved, you will need
another desire. 

The day you understand that desire as such is going to fail
comes the turning point in your life. 

The other journey is inwards. Move inwards, come back home. 

-- Author Unknown

Red roses were her favorites, her name was also Rose. And every
year her husband sent them, tied with pretty bows. The year he died, the
roses were delivered to her door.
The card said, "Be my Valentine", like all the years before.

Each year he sent her roses, and the note would always say, "I
love you even more this year than last year on this day. My love for you
will always grow, with every passing year." She knew this was the
last time that the roses would appear.

She thought, he ordered roses in advance before this day. Her
loving husband did not know, that he would pass away. He always liked
to do things early, way before the time. Then, if he got too busy,
everything would work out fine.

She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special vase.
Then, sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face. She would sit
for hours,
in her husband's favorite chair.
While staring at his picture, and the roses sitting there.

A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate. With
loneliness and solitude, that had become her fate. Then, the very hour, as
on Valentines before, the doorbell rang, and there were roses,
sitting by her door. 

She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in
shock. Then, went to get the telephone, to call the florist shop. The owner
answered, and she asked him, if he would explain, why would someone do
this to her, causing her such pain?

"I know your husband passed away, more than a year ago," The
owner said, "I knew you'd call, and you would want to know. The flowers you
received today were paid for in advance.
Your husband always planned ahead, he left nothing to chance.

"There is a standing order, that I have on file down here, and
he has paid, well in advance, you'll get them every year. There also
is another thing, that I think you should know, he wrote a special little
card...he did this years ago.

"Then, should ever I find out that he's no longer here, that's
the card . . . that should be sent, to you the following year." 

She thanked him and hung up the phone, her tears now flowing
hard. Her fingers shaking, as she slowly reached to get the card. Inside
the card, she saw that he had written her a note.
Then, as she stared in total silence, this is what he wrote . .
. "Hello my love, I know it's been a year since I've been gone, I hope
it hasn't been too hard for you to overcome.

"I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real. For if it
was the other way, I know how I would feel. The love we shared made
everything so beautiful in life. I loved you more than words can say, you
were the perfect wife.

"You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need. I
know it's only been a year, but please try not to grieve. I want you to
be happy, even when you shed your tears. That is why the roses will be
sent to you for years.

"When you get these roses, think of all the happiness, that we
had together, and how both of us were blessed. I have always loved
you and I know I always will. But, my love, you must go on, you have some
living still.

"Please...try to find happiness, while living out your days. I
know it is not easy, but I hope you find some ways. The roses will come
every year, and they will only stop, when your door's not answered, when
the florist stops to knock.

"He will come five times that day, in case you have gone out.
But after his last visit, he will know without a doubt, to take the roses
to the place, where I've instructed him, and place the roses where we
are, together once again.

-- Author Unknown