A friend of ours was walking down a deserted Mexican beach at sunset. As he walked along, he began to see another man in the distance. As he drew nearer, he noticed that the local native kept leaning down, picking something up and throwing it out into the water. Time and again he kept hurling things out into the ocean. 

As our friend approached even closer, he noticed that the man was picking up starfish that had been washed up on the beach and, one at a time, he was throwing them back into the water. 

 Our friend was puzzled. He approached the man and said,"Good evening, friend. I was wondering what you are doing." 

 "I'm throwing these starfish back into the ocean. You see,it's low tide right now and all of these starfish have been washed up onto the shore. If I don't throw them back into the sea, they'll die up here from lack of  oxygen." 

"I understand," my friend replied, "but there must bethousands of starfish on this beach. You can't possibly get to all of them. There are simply too many. And don't you realize this is probably happening on hundreds of beaches all up and down this coast? Can't you see that you can't possibly make adifference?" 

The local native smiled, bent down and picked up yet another starfish, and as he threw it back into the sea, he replied, "Made a difference to that one!" 

Oh, How I Loved Her 

The clergyman was finishing the graveside service. Suddenly,the 78-year-old man whose wife of 50 years had just died beganscreaming in a thick accent, "Oh, oh, oh, how I loved her!" Hismournful wail interrupted the dignified quiet of the ceremony. 

The other family and friends standing around the grave lookedshocked and embarrassed. His grown children, blushing, tried toshush their father. "It's okay, Dad; we understand, Shush." The old man stared fixedly at the casket lowering slowly into the grave. The clergyman went on. Finishing, he invited the family to shovel some dirt onto the coffin as a mark of the finality ofdeath. Each, in turn, did so with the exception of the old man. 

"Oh, how I loved her!" he moaned loudly. His daughter and two sons again tried to restrain him, but he continued, "I loved her!" 

 Now, as the rest of those gathered around began leaving thegrave, the old man stubbornly resisted. He stayed, staring intothe grave. The clergyman approached. "I know how you must feel,but it's time to leave. We all must leave and go on with life." 

 "Oh, how I loved her!" the old man moaned, miserably. "You don't understand," he said to the clergyman, "I almost told her once." 

We Never Told Him He Couldn't Do It 

 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 childrendo 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-countryteam. 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 notcome 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 wentto 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 hisfever. Yet he looked straight ahead and kept running. We nevertold him he couldn't run four miles with a 103-degree fever. Sohe 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 hecouldn't do it...so he didn't know. He just did it. 

Appointment with Love 

 Six minutes to six, said the great round clock over theinformation booth in Grand Central Station. The tall young Army lieutenant who had just come from the direction of the tracks lifted his sunburned face, and his eyes narrowed to note theexact time. His heart was pounding with a beat that shocked him because he could not control it. In six minutes, he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for thepast 13 months, the woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had been with him and sustained him unfailingly. He placed himself as close as he could to the information booth, just beyond the ring of people besieging the clerks... 

Lieutenant Blandford remembered one night in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of Zeros. He had seen the grinning face of one of the enemy pilots. 

In one of his letters, he had confessed to her that he often felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, 
he had received her answer: "Of course you fear...all brave men do. 

Didn't King David know fear? That's why he wrote the 23rd Psalm. 

Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voicereciting to you: 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of theshadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me.'" 

 And he had remembered; he had heard her imagined voice, and it had renewed his strength and skill. 

Now he was going to hear her real voice. Four minutes to six. His face grew sharp. 

 Under the immense, starred roof, people were walking fast, like threads of color being woven into a gray web. A girl passed close to him, and Lieutenant Blandford started. She was wearing a red flower in her suit lapel, but it was a crimson sweet pea, not the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was too young, about 18, whereas Hollis Meynell had frankly told him she was 30. "Well, what of it?" he had answered. "I'm 32." He was29. 

 His mind went back to that book - the book the Lord Himself must have put into his hands out of the hundreds of Army library books sent to the Florida training camp. Of Human Bondage, it was; and throughout the book were notes in a woman's writing. Hehad always hated that writing-in-habit, but these remarks weredifferent. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man's heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Meynell. He had got hold of a New York City telephone book and found her address. He had written, she hadanswered. Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing. 

For 13 months, she had faithfully replied, and more thanreplied. When his letters did not arrive she wrote 
anyway, and now he believed he loved her, and she loved him. 

But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. That seemed rather bad, of course. But she hadexplained: "If your feeling for me has any reality, any honest basis, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I'm beautiful. I'dalways be haunted by the feeling that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. 

Suppose I'm plain (and you must admit that this is more likely). 

 Then I'd always fear that you were going on writing to me only because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then youshall make your decision. Remember, both of us are free to stop or to go on after that - whichever we choose..." 

 One minute to six - he pulled hard on a cigarette. 

Then Lieutenant Blandford's heart leaped higher than his plane had ever done. 

A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long andslim; her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears. 

Her eyes were blue as flowers, her lips and chin had a gentlefirmness. In her pale green suit, she was like 
springtime comealive. 

He started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice thatshe was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small, provocativesmile curved her lips. 

 "Going my way, soldier?" she murmured. 

 Uncontrollably, he made one step closer to her. Then he saw…Hollis Meynell. 

She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a womanwell past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump; her thick-ankled feet were thrust into low-heeled shoes. But she wore a red rose in the rumpled lapel of herbrown coat. 

The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.

Blandford felt as though he were being split in two, so keen was his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned and upheld his own; and there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible; he could see that now. Her gray eyes had a warm, kindly twinkle. 

Lieutenant Blandford did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the small worn, blue leather copy of Of Human Bondage, which wasto identify him to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even rarer than love - a friendship for which he had been and must ever be grateful. 

He squared his broad shoulders, saluted and held the bookout toward the woman, although even while he spoke he felt shocked by the bitterness of his disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John Blandford, and you - you are missMeynell. I'm so glad you could meet me. May...may I take you to dinner?" 

The woman's face broadened in a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is all about, son," she answered. "That young lady in the green suit - the one who just went by - begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said that if you asked me to go outwith you, I should tell you that she's waiting for you in that big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of atest. I've got two boys with Uncle Sam myself, so I didn't mindto oblige you." 

A Christmas Card 

Robert Smith of Pennsylvania tells a boyhood story. "It's been many years since I saw her," he relates, "but in memory, she's still there every holiday season. I especially feel her presence when I receive my first Christmas card. I was only twelve years old and Christmas was only a few days away, and the season's first blanket of white snow magnified the excitement. I dressed hurriedly because the snow out there was waiting for me. 

What would I do first? Build a snowman? Slide down the hill? Throw some flakes in the air and let them flutter down? Well, our family station wagon pulled into the driveway and Mom called me over to help her with the groceries. When we finished that, she said, 'Bob, here are Mrs. Hildebrand's groceries.' No other instructions were necessary. As far back as I could remember, Mom shopped for Mrs. Hildebrand's food and I delivered it. Our 95-year-old neighbor lived alone. She was crippled with arthritis, and she could only take a few steps with a cane. I liked Mrs. Hildebrand. I enjoyed talking with her. More accurately, I enjoyed listening to her. She told me wonderful stories about her life, about a steepled church in the woods, horse and buggy rides on Sunday afternoons, and her family farm that had no electricity or running water. 

She always gave me a dime for bringing in her groceries. It got so that I would refuse only half-heartedly, knowing she would insist, and five minutes later I would be across the street at Beyer's Candy Store. As I headed over with the grocery bags, I decided I wouldn't accept any money from Mrs. Hildebrand. This would be my present to her. So, impatiently, I rang the doorbell. 'Come in,' she said cheerfully; 'put the bag on the table.' I did so more hurriedly than usual because I could hear the snow calling me back outside. She sat at the table, picked up the items out of the bag and told me where to set them on the shelves. I usually enjoyed doing this, but it was snowing! As we continued, I began to realize how lonely she was. Her husband had died some 20 years before. She had no children. Her only living relative was a nephew in Philadelphia who never came to visit her. 

Nobody even called her on Christmas. There was no tree, no presents, no stockings. For her, Christmas was just another date on the calendar. She offered me a cup of tea, which she did every time I brought in the groceries. 'Well,' I thought, 'maybe the snow could wait a bit.' We sat and talked about what Christmas was like when she was a child. Together we traveled back in time, and an hour passed before I knew. 'Well, Bob,' she said, 'you must be wanting to play outside in the snow,' as she reached for her purse, fumbling for the right coin. 'No, no, Mrs. Hildebrand. I can't take your money this time. You can use it for more important things,' I insisted. She looked at me and smiled. 'What more important thing could I use this money for, if not to give it to a friend at Christmas time?' She placed a whole quarter in my hand. I tried to give it back, but she would have none of it. I hurried out of the door and I ran over to Beyer's Candy Store with my fortune. I had no idea what to buy - a comic book, a chocolate soda, ice cream. And then I spotted a Christmas card with an old country church on its cover. It was just like the church Mrs. Hildebrand described to me, and I knew I had to buy it. I handed Mr. Beyer my quarter and borrowed a pen to sign my name. 'For your girlfriend?' Mr Beyer teased. I started to say no but quickly changed my mind. 'Well, yeah,' I said. 'I guess so.' As I walked across the street with my gift, I was so proud of myself. I felt like I'd just hit a home run in the World Series. I rang Mrs. Hildebrand's doorbell. 'Hello, Mrs. Hildebrand,' I said, and handed her my card. 

‘Merry Christmas.' Her hands trembled as she slowly opened the envelope, studied the card and began to cry. 'Thank you. Thank you very much,' she said in almost a whisper. 'MerryChristmas to you.' On a cold and windy afternoon a few weeks later, the ambulance arrived next door. My mom said they found Mrs. Hildebrand in bed. She had died peacefully in her sleep. Her night table light was still on when they found her and it illumined a solitary Christmas card with an old country church on the cover."

A coincidence? 

I was very proud of my daughter Emily. At only nine years old, she had been carefully saving her allowance money all year and trying to earn extra money by doing small jobs around the neighborhood. Emily was determined to save enough to buy a  girl's mountain bike, an item for which she'd been longing, and she'd been faithfully putting her money away since the  beginning of the year. 

"How're you doing, honey?" I asked soon after Thanksgiving. I knew she had hoped to have all the money she needed by  the end of the year.  "I have forty-nine dollars, Daddy," she said. "I'm not sure if I'm 
going to make it."  "You've worked so hard," I said encouragingly. "Keep it up. But you know that you can have your pick from my bicycle  collection." "Thanks, Daddy. But your bikes are so old." 

I smiled to myself because I knew she was right. As a collector of vintage bicycles, all my girls' bikes were 1950's models - not the kind a kid would choose today.  When the Christmas season arrived, Emily and I went comparison shopping, and she saw several less expensive bikes for  which she thought she'd have to settle. As we left one store, she noticed a Salvation Army volunteer ringing his bell by a big kettle. "Can we give them something, Daddy?" she asked.  "Sorry, Em, I'm out of change," I replied. 

Emily continued to work hard all through December, and it seemed she might make her goal after all. Then suddenly one  day, she came downstairs to the kitchen and made an announcement to her mother. 
"Mom," she said hesitantly, "you know all the money I've been saving?" 
"Yes, dear," smiled my wife, Diane. 
"God told me to give it to the poor people." 
Diane knelt down to Emily's level. "That's a very kind thought, sweetheart. But you've been saving all year. Maybe you could give some of it." Emily shook her head vigorously. "God said all." 
 When we saw she was serious, we gave her various suggestions about where she could contribute. But Emily had received  specific instructions, and so one cold Sunday morning before Christmas, with little fanfare, she handed her total savings of  $58 to a surprised and grateful Salvation Army volunteer. 

Moved by Emily's selflessness, I suddenly noticed that a local car dealer was collecting used bicycles to refurbish and give to poor children for Christmas. And I realized that if my nine-year-old daughter could give away all her money, I could certainly give up one bike from my collection. As I picked up a shiny but old-fashioned kid's bike from the line in the garage, it seemed as if a second bicycle in the line  took on a glow. Should I give a second bike? No, certainly the one would be enough. 

 But as I got to my car, I couldn't shake the feeling that I should donate that second bike as well. And if Emily could follow  heavenly instructions, I decided I could, too. I turned back and loaded the second bike into the trunk, then took off for the dealership. 

 When I delivered the bikes, the car dealer thanked me and said, 
"You're making two kids very happy, Mr. Koper. And here are your tickets." 
 "Tickets?" I asked. 
 "Yes. For each bike donated, we're giving away one chance to win a brand new men's 21-speed mountain bike from a local  bike shop. So here are your tickets for two chances.  Why wasn't I surprised when that second ticket won the bike? I can't believe you won!" laughed Diane, delighted. 
 "I didn't," I said. "It's pretty clear that Emily did." And why wasn't I surprised when the bike dealer happily substituted a  gorgeous new girl's mountain bike for the man's bike advertised? 

 Coincidence? Maybe. I like to think it was God's way of rewarding a little girl for a sacrifice beyond her years - while giving her dad a lesson in charity and the power of the Lord. 

Do it now 

 An adult education teacher once gave his class an assignment to go to someone they love before the following week's class  and tell them that they loved them. They would then give their report at the next class. It had to be someone to whom they  had never said those words before, or at least not for a very long 
time. At the next class, one man stood up and recounted  his story to the class. "I was quite angry with you last week when you gave us this assignment. I felt that who were you to tell us to do something so personal? But as I was driving home, my conscience started talking to me. It was telling me that I knew exactly who I needed to say 'I love you' to. Five years ago, my father and I had a terrible argument which we have never resolved. We have avoided seeing each other unless it was absolutely necessary and even then we hardly spoke to each other. 

So last week by the time I had gotten home after class, I had convinced myself to tell my father that I loved  him. It's strange, but just making the decision seemed to lift a heavy load off my chest. When I told my wife, she jumped out of bed, gave me a big hug and for the first time in our married life saw me cry. We sat up half of the night talking and drinking coffee. 

The next day I was up bright and early as if I had slept soundly all night. I got to the office and accomplished more in a couple of hours than I had the whole day before. At 9AM, I called my father to tell him I wanted to come over after work and talk to him. He reluctantly agreed. By 5:30, I was at the house. 

When my father answered the door, I didn't waste any time. I took one step inside and blurted out 'Dad, I just came over to tell you that I love you.' Well, it was as if a transformation had come over him. Before my eyes, his face softened, the wrinkles seemed to disappear and he too began to cry. He reached out and hugged me, saying 'I love you too, son, but I've never been able to say it.' My mother walked by just then with tears in her eyes. I didn't stay long, but I hadn't felt that great in a long time. Two days after my  visit, my dad, who had had heart problems but hadn't told us, had an attack and ended up unconscious in the hospital. I still  don't know if he'll make it. So my message to all of you in this class is: don't wait to do the things you know need to be  done. If I had waited, I may never have another chance to do what I did." 

A Story of Forgiveness 

The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M. I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family. 

As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. 

Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier. He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would you - " He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind. I touched his hand, waiting. 

He brushed away a tear. "Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up. I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute. "Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his face. He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. 

"Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?" He was breathing fast - too fast. "I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder. I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50-year-old face. Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot. 

"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?" I dug a scrap of yellow and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed. 

Her soft voice answered. "Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and - "No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he ?" 

"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing. Silence. I bit my lip. 

"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone. "He is getting the very best care." 

"But you don't understand," she pleaded. "My daddy and I haven't spoken since my 21st birthday. We had a fight over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you.'" 

Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you." As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness." 

"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said. Click. She had hung up. I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn't concentrate. Room 712. I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door. Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none. "Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat." The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed. 

Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest. With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, compressed and breathed. He could not die! 

"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way." The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. 

A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing. 

I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace." 

"Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead. A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. 

One by one they left, grim and silent. How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside - everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter? When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. 

Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall. Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone. I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking. 

"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate. "I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said. God, please help her, I thought. Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him." 

My first thought was: "Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse." But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door. We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets. I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. 

I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read: 

 My dearest Janie, 
 I forgive you. I pray that you will also forgive me.
 I know that you love me. I love you too. 
 Daddy 

The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast. "Thank You, God," I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever. Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank you, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again - but there is not a moment to spare. 

Mark 

Mark was walking home from school one day when he noticed that the boy ahead of him had tripped and dropped all of the books he was carrying, along with two sweaters, a baseball bat, a glove and a small tape recorder. Mark knelt down and helped the boy to pick up the scattered articles. Since they were going the  same way, he helped to carry part of the burden. As they walked, Mark discovered that the boy's name was Bill, that he loved video games, baseball and history, and that he was having lots of trouble  with his other subjects and that he had just broken up with his girlfriend. 

 They arrived at Bill's home first. Mark was invited in for a Coke and to  watch some television. The afternoon passed pleasantly with a few laughs  and some shared small talk. Then Mark went home. They continued to see each  other around school, had lunch together once or twice, then both graduated  from junior high school. They ended up in the same high school where they  had brief contacts over the years. 

 Finally the long-awaited senior year came and three weeks before graduation,  Bill asked Mark if they could talk. Bill reminded him of the day years ago when  they had first met. "Did you ever wonder why I was carrying so many things home  that day?" asked Bill. "You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn't want  to leave a mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mother's sleeping  pills and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time  together talking and laughing, I realised that if I had killed myself, I would have  missed that time and so many others that might follow. So you see, Mark, when you  picked up those books that day, you did a lot more, you saved my life." 

 Every little hello, every little smile, every helping hand saves a hurting heart.