He who lends a book is a fool.

He who returns a book is an even greater fool.

Definition of Love

Love is the accurate estimate and the adequate supply of another's need.

--Dick Foth

(For full talk by Rev. Foth, follow following link:)

http://theaterchurch.com/media/message/how-to-build-healthy-relationships/

“Should I—or should I not—forgive?”

As told by Lillianna Angel Cummings

I have a story to tell you today. About what? Well, about love, and especially about forgiveness.

It began in 1970 when Sarah Perkins found a job as a secretary for an insurance company.

She had not worked there long before she realized she was falling in love. He was a traveling salesman for the same company; a shy, loner-type fellow named Brett Angel who never looked a person in the eye without turning a shade darker.

Love works wonders, as you all know. After a long (and rather awkward) courtship (for it took Brett a long time to finally be able to express his feelings for her), they were engaged, and then married.

Living together made many changes in their lives; they learned to depend and to be dependable; they learned how to take life as a wonderful challenge, and most of all, they learned to accommodate each other’s many faults and yet grow ever steadier in their love.

Sarah’s main challenge was to help her husband overcome his shyness. Twice he was nearly fired from the company because his introversion cost him many would-be customers. Sarah knew that her husband was very discouraged over his disability; thus she vowed to herself to help her husband see his own worth and bring up his self-esteem. However, even his weakness brought a measure of security for her, because she knew that he was especially shy around women.

One day, Brett was sent by his employers to another town to check out some prospective customers. Once again, however, his shyness intruded, and the expected order failed to come to pass. Over the phone in his dingy downtown hotel room, he received a mighty tirade from his boss, who ended it by warning Brett “never to set foot in the company again”. Brett was fired!

Back home, a friend of Sarah’s overheard the tirade and called her immediately, telling her what had happened. Shocked, Sarah made arrangements to go to that town and meet up with Brett, so that he wouldn’t have to be alone with this terrible disappointment.

Arriving in the next city a few hours later, as she made her way toward the hotel where Brett normally stayed, she beheld a horrid sight! There was Brett in the doorway of a tavern, drunk and garrulous, with his arm around a beautiful, scantily clad woman. Sarah watched in horror as Brett leaned over suddenly and passionately kissed the girl. The girl’s profession was obvious, but… Brett! Hot tears stung Sarah’s eyes and coursed down her cheek. Turning abruptly, without Brett even having noticed her presence across the street, she walked briskly back to the bus stop, boarding the next bus home.

The first thing she did back home was change the message on the phone’s answering machine. It said, “Brett, I saw you in that town. Can you come home soon, please? Sarah.”

One can imagine the horror and shock she felt. One would almost think she would hate Brett. Did she? How could she love such a man who could completely forget her and betray her in this way?! Only one thought remained in her mind: Should I—or should I not —forgive?

Brett arrived home the next night, just as expected. One look at his wife’s face told him immediately that she knew exactly what he had done. For a long moment, he stood at the doorway still holding his bags, their eyes locked. Aside their heaving chests neither moved at all; neither said a word.

Finally, Brett lowered his eyes. His eyes filled with remorseful tears. But before he could begin to stammer an apology, his wife’s arms opened into a welcoming embrace. Dropping his bags, he ran to her open arms. She buried her head in his shoulder, baptizing it with a steady unchecked flow of tears. Leaning closer, she managed, through her tears, to whisper in his ear,

“Honey, I’m so proud of you. You’ve overcome your shyness! Now you can get a better job and start over.”

By this, Sarah meant that she had forgiven and forgotten his wrongdoings.

As a result of this loving, forgiving act, Brett changed entirely. His inferiority complex vanished and he found an excellent job as a journalist. He and Sarah went on to raise 3 children to full maturity, before a car crash claimed both their lives in an instant.

One thing I know for certain: Brett Angel never betrayed Sarah’s trust again. I know because… he was my father, and Sarah, my mother.

She told me this story on my wedding day.

My mother taught me the most valuable counsel I have ever heard, and that is to forgive, for to love is to forgive, and to forgive is to love.

To Know, vs. Knowledge of

The result of a little reflection spree the other day.

By Yours Truly

Sometimes when speaking in English about Jesus with a new acquaintance, I come upon a problem. If I ask, “Do you know Jesus?” usually the person will immediately reply, “Of course I do,” with a furrow on their brow, as if to say, “Who doesn’t?”
Not good enough. I shake my head and try another tack. Because they obviously don’t know Him—not the way I mean. They’re thinking something to this effect, Of course I know of Jesus. I hear about Him all the time. Who hasn’t? Oh dear, I hope this isn’t another religious fanatic...
This problem stems from the fact that our little English word “know” has a strangely wideh variety of meanings. I had never really noticed that fact, until I took up the study of Latin-based languages in earnest. It hit me, one day, as I was reflecting upon certain Spanish words and their meanings, that there are at least two distinct fields of thought condensed into our little English word “know”. And when a single word is the only vent for several different refrains of thoughts, misunderstandings are bound to arise.
Latin-based languages do not have this particular problem. Neither did our Old-English speaking ancestors; in fact, as far as I've been able to ascertain, most languages have enough verbs to cover the different domains which are governed solely by our “know”.
For reasons of time and convenience, I confined my research to Latin and its derivative languages, and came in the end to two root-words, upon which I've based this essay.
The first is the Latin word ‘sapere.’ Sapere has to do with information—that is, the educational, facts-and-figures type of knowledge. It's original meaning being 'to taste, or smell, to be informed of, to have heard of, or read about, or deduced, or learned.' To know of something. This word, and its intimated meaning, seems to denote a rather more superficial sort of knowledge.

“I know the sum of 2 + 2.”
“He knows that elephants are big.”

The other refrain of thought, for which we also use the word “know”, is derived from “cognocere,” or “gnoscere,” which denotes a more intimate feeling. It means to be acquainted with, to have met someone or something, and known them personally or figuratively. To have experienced something.
The connotation attached to this version of “know” is an intimate connection with the subject in question. We are not only aware of its existence; we have been touched in some way by its existence. This kind of knowledge is not always quantifiable, nor verifiable; it cannot always be measured via the facts-and-figures approach to knowledge. It goes beyond head-knowledge.
Therefore, when I’m speaking in, say, Spanish with someone and I venture to introduce my best Friend to them in the course of our conversation, I will naturally use the word for “know” derived from “cognocere,” and it produces an entirely different effect. More often than not, the person I’m speaking with will screw up their face and say, “What do you mean?” And they’re thinking, Of course I’ve never met Jesus; how could I have? I’ve heard of Him, sure, but I don’t know him... oh dear, not another religious fanatic.
Therein lies my point. It's the battle of 'knowledge of ' versus 'to know'.
Once that point is clear between myself and whoever it is I'm speaking with, I can then go on and introduce Jesus personally, because He really is a friend of mine, and I have met Him personally—it’s a heart thing, not an explainable derivative of sapere.
A short example will perhaps explain my point better and in fewer words.
Take an electrician, who knows everything he needs to know about electricity. He has a profound and all-encompassing knowledge of electricity; he knows how it works, why it works, what it does, and how to best use it. You could factually say he knows electricity, and you would be borrowing the term derived from 'sapere.'
Now, on the other hand, take a hill-billy country bumpkin who can't hardly spell his own name, has never seen an electrical appliance, and who has none of the technical information or knowledge about electricity. However, he was once struck by a lightning. His own acquaintanceship with electricity is vitally deeper than that of the electrician's, even though he never took a course on the subject, because he has actually experienced the power of the current in his own body. Thus, when he says, “Trust me, I KNOW electricity,” he's speaking the truth, cognoscere-wise.
I kind of feel the same way about Jesus. I don't have much technical knowledge of him, and apart from the very brief thumbnail sketch we are given of Him in the Bible, there isn't much anyone alive today can know of his physical persona.
However, I KNOW Him, I've experienced him, and so I’m eager that everyone I meet should meet Jesus, too, because, well, He is the center feature of my entire life, the reason for my existence. Without Him, I would have given up a long time ago. I still don't know what he looks like, but I know the touch of his spirit. It's not something I can describe; each person's got to experience it for themselves.
So what does it mean to know Jesus? Most people know of Him, but how many actually know him in the cognoscere sense of the word? How many have met Him, touched His presence in their heart? Head-knowledge of Him won’t warm your soul when you’re lonely, won’t protect you when you’re in trouble, won’t feed and strengthen your spirit. People who lump Jesus into the pot with all the other great men of history simply don’t know Him, period.
Jesus was not, and is not, a religious tidbit—he was a person. God wanted to show us an understandable illustration of Himself—He knew we as humans simply cannot grasp the concept of “God”; we’ve only the vaguest of ideas of the principles that govern the God factor of the universe. And so He dressed Jesus up in human flesh and said, “Here, this is Me.” Jesus was a human God; the Bible said He became flesh and dwelt among us, so we could behold the glory of the Father. (Another radical concept: God’s love for us is akin to the love a parent feels for his darling child. Earth-shaking concept at the time, when God was essentially a Law-Maker.)
Jesus broke absolutely every precedent in His interactions with humanity, and in the truths He taught. He was the first person to go around advocating unconditional forgiveness of enemies; He taught principles of life based on pure love, which was unheard of. Life’s principles were generally based on justice (well, sort of...), certainly not love. Jesus implied that sin not only meant breaking the rules; it also meant keeping the rules for unloving purposes. The only ones who could hope to attain to God’s mercy were those who accepted His love—and that God’s reward system is based on how faithful we are to His loving principles, rather than on how strictly we keep all the rules.
Those who actually met Jesus face to face while He was alive were deeply influenced and changed by His presence. Then Jesus was killed. He came back to life, hung around for forty days, and then His physical body took the elevator through the clouds. Since then, relatively few people have had the opportunity to meet Jesus face to face while still living on this planet.
But there’s still a very real Jesus, who, though no longer on our physical plane as a fellow human endowed with flesh and blood, nevertheless longs to meet each individual alive, and thrill each heart with His personal acquaintanceship, and His amazing and exclusive love.
Luckily, He’s got agents who make it their personal business to introduce Him to others.
Whether you “know” Jesus the way you know facts or figures, or whether you have met Him personally and know Him as He is meant to be known, in that deep, intimate way, makes all the difference in the world.
And it’s really too bad that we English speakers have to use the same word for both occasions.


“And you shall KNOW the truth, and the truth will make you free!!!”

Give What You Have

By Zig Ziglar, May 28, 2011

“As a new resident of a small Southern town, I often noticed a stocky, gray-haired man ride by my home on a bicycle. He usually had a tool kit in the wire basket of the bike. Months after I had first noticed him, we were introduced at the home of a new friend of mine, a widow. When she told me his name, she added, ‘But we widows call him “Mr. Fix-it.” He’s just replaced a broken windowpane for me. If we have trouble with dripping faucets, loose door hinges, toasters or irons on the blink, we call him. The only pay he’ll take is a snack.

“Over shared coffee and cinnamon rolls, I asked him why he went around helping widows. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘after I lost my Annie, I got to wondering how she’d have managed if I’d been taken first. She didn’t know the business end of a hammer and would have had to hire someone for every little thing. On the small pension she’d have had, and with the cost of repairs today, she’d have had to cut down on necessities, like food.’

“Rich folks can give big money to their churches, schools and hospitals as memorials to loved ones that have passed away. All I’ve got is time and a little know-how. What I do for others is in memory of my Annie.’” (Nell Bentz, May 1998, Cheers Magazine)

We all have a tendency to say, “There’s nothing I can do,” when, on many occasions, there are little things like “Mr. Fix-it” did that we can do. You may, like me, have had a “mechanical bypass,” but a short visit with a shut-in or driving someone to the supermarket or a doctor’s appointment would be a wonderful blessing. When we do those “little things,” it gives all us something to smile about.

Why the Train Stalled in Peterborough...

A real Good Samaritan

Continue reading the main story

In today's Magazine

• The politics of bank holidays
• 7 days 7 questions
• The art of explaining stuff
• How to succeed in business by doing nothingOne act of kindness that befell British writer Bernard Hare in 1982 changed him profoundly. Then a student living just north of London, he tells the story to inspire troubled young people to help deal with their disrupted lives.

The police called at my student hovel early evening, but I didn't answer as I thought they'd come to evict me. I hadn't paid my rent in months.

But then I got to thinking: my mum hadn't been too good and what if it was something about her?

We had no phone in the hovel and mobiles hadn't been invented yet, so I had to nip down the phone box.

I rang home to Leeds to find my mother was in hospital and not expected to survive the night. "Get home, son," my dad said.

I got to the railway station to find I'd missed the last train. A train was going as far as Peterborough, but I would miss the connecting Leeds train by twenty minutes.

Continue reading the main story

“Start Quote

To this day, I won't hear a bad word said about British Rail”

I bought a ticket home and got on anyway. I was a struggling student and didn't have the money for a taxi the whole way, but I had a screwdriver in my pocket and my bunch of skeleton keys.

I was so desperate to get home that I planned to nick a car in Peterborough, hitch hike, steal some money, something, anything. I just knew from my dad's tone of voice that my mother was going to die that night and I intended to get home if it killed me.

"Tickets, please," I heard, as I stared blankly out of the window at the passing darkness. I fumbled for my ticket and gave it to the guard when he approached. He stamped it, but then just stood there looking at me. I'd been crying, had red eyes and must have looked a fright.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Course I'm okay," I said. "Why wouldn't I be? And what's it got to do with you in any case?"

"You look awful," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"

Continue reading the main story

"You could get lost and mind your own business," I said. "That'd be a big help." I wasn't in the mood for talking.

He was only a little bloke and he must have read the danger signals in my body language and tone of voice, but he sat down opposite me anyway and continued to engage me.

"If there's a problem, I'm here to help. That's what I'm paid for."

I was a big bloke in my prime, so I thought for a second about physically sending him on his way, but somehow it didn't seem appropriate. He wasn't really doing much wrong. I was going through all the stages of grief at once: denial, anger, guilt, withdrawal, everything but acceptance. I was a bubbling cauldron of emotion and he had placed himself in my line of fire.

The only other thing I could think of to get rid of him was to tell him my story.

"Look, my mum's in hospital, dying, she won't survive the night, I'm going to miss the connection to Leeds at Peterborough, I'm not sure how I'm going to get home.

"It's tonight or never, I won't get another chance, I'm a bit upset, I don't really feel like talking, I'd be grateful if you'd leave me alone. Okay?"

"Okay," he said, finally getting up. "Sorry to hear that, son. I'll leave you alone then. Hope you make it home in time." Then he wandered off down the carriage back the way he came.

Continue reading the main story

I continued to look out of the window at the dark. Ten minutes later, he was back at the side of my table. Oh no, I thought, here we go again. This time I really am going to rag him down the train.

He touched my arm. "Listen, when we get to Peterborough, shoot straight over to Platform One as quick as you like. The Leeds train'll be there."

I looked at him dumbfounded. It wasn't really registering. "Come again," I said, stupidly. "What do you mean? Is it late, or something?"

"No, it isn't late," he said, defensively, as if he really cared whether trains were late or not. "No, I've just radioed Peterborough. They're going to hold the train up for you. As soon as you get on, it goes.

"Everyone will be complaining about how late it is, but let's not worry about that on this occasion. You'll get home and that's the main thing. Good luck and God bless."

Then he was off down the train again. "Tickets, please. Any more tickets now?"

I suddenly realised what a top-class, fully-fledged doilem I was and chased him down the train. I wanted to give him all the money from my wallet, my driver's licence, my keys, but I knew he would be offended.

I caught him up and grabbed his arm. "Oh, er, I just wanted to…" I was suddenly speechless. "I, erm…"

"I wish I had some way to thank you," I said. "I appreciate what you've done.""It's okay," he said. "Not a problem." He had a warm smile on his face and true compassion in his eyes. He was a good man for its own sake and required nothing in return.

"Not a problem," he said again. "If you feel the need to thank me, the next time you see someone in trouble, you help them out. That will pay me back amply.

"Tell them to pay you back the same way and soon the world will be a better place."

I was at my mother's side when she died in the early hours of the morning. Even now, I can't think of her without remembering the Good Conductor on that late-night train to Peterborough and, to this day, I won't hear a bad word said about British Rail.

My meeting with the Good Conductor changed me from a selfish, potentially violent hedonist into a decent human being, but it took time.

"I've paid him back a thousand times since then," I tell the young people I work with, "and I'll keep on doing so till the day I die. You don't owe me nothing. Nothing at all."

"And if you think you do, I'd give you the same advice the Good Conductor gave me. Pass it down the line.

Master Oogway's Words of Wisdom

Learning lessons from Kung-Fu Panda:

"Yesterday is History

Tomorrow is a Mystery

But Today is a Gift;

That's why it's called the Present."

--Master Oogway

Atheist Holiday

A well-known Judge is reported to have once been approached by a delegation from the Atheists United board committee.

"What can I do for you?" the judge asked severely.

"Well, your Honour, it's just not fair. Every religion has its own paid holiday, from which we who despise religion are exempt! We firmly demand that, in the interests of fair play and justice, a special atheist national holiday be observed."

The little crowd of scowling men and women all nodded their heads stentoriously in agreement.

The judge pulled out his pipe and placidly began filling it.

"Why," he said, with a surprised look on his face, "how very odd. The fact is that there is an annual national Atheist holiday, and to my knowledge, always has been."

"No!" The eyebrows rose questioningly, and faces screwed up into bewildered wonder. "None that we know of."

"But of course! And it always has been faithfully observed, to my understanding."

Now the atheist delegation was head-scratching, and whispering among themselves. "Well, when is it?" the spokesman sputtered at last.

"April 1st," came the judge's reply.

"The Fool has said in his heart, 'There is no God'..." Psalm 14:1

No Ski Like Snow Ski

Here is an article by one of my favourite humourist writers, Bruce Cameron, from the Creators Syndicate. As skiing is NOT one of my favoured sports, despite having lived among the slopes of some awesome Swiss mountains, this article particularly struck my fancy. Hope you'll enjoy it too!

No Ski Like Snow Ski

Bruce Cameron, Creators Syndicate, March 26, 2011

I am the sort of athlete who participates in a lot of winter sports—basketball, for example, is an activity that I’ll spend many hours a week watching. And I’ll sometimes agree to let my children drag me out for a day of snow skiing, though I prefer this occur in the summer, when it’s not my fault we don’t go.

My philosophy on snow skiing is that there are less expensive ways to fall down a mountain. Yet every couple of years I go on a ski trip for the same reason that women will have multiple children—they simply forget how much it hurts.

Ski-lift tickets became rather expensive in the 1980s, but since then the ski companies have helpfully limited their price increases to keep pace with inflation—in Zimbabwe. The good news, though, is that at the top of the mountain there is a beautiful lodge where you can relax, rest and pay a month’s salary for a hamburger.

My ski equipment is top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art for something purchased in the Carter administration. The skis have some elegant Japanese characters written on them—I don’t know what the words mean, but I do know that Japanese women won’t let their children look at them and that Japanese men sometimes tell me I am a “vile pig.”

My ski boots are so tight it feels as if I’m wearing matching bear traps.

My ski outfit is layered and as uncomfortable as sleeping underneath a wet Buick. It takes so long to undress that I head to the men’s room about an hour before I actually need to go.

But once I’ve gotten dressed and assembled my gear and mortgaged my house for a lift ticket and headed for the slopes, I’m always glad to get on the chair lift because it means I can sit down. I also appreciate the ski poles, because they are designed to poke your children when they annoy you.

(If you can catch your children. The fact that they ski so much better is actually what you find so annoying.)

There are two kinds of slopes: “cruisers,” where the snowcats have mashed the snow down as hard as a cement driveway and where you can build up a lot of speed before you fall, and “bump runs,” where the terrain slams you like anti-aircraft fire. Joining these two are often a series of “catwalks,” where people are expected to ski uphill.

My favorite ski slope is the kind that winds up at the cafeteria. My children, though, usually insist that I get out and take on a few expert runs, in a game called “Let’s See if We Can Get Our Inheritance Early.” An expert run is what would happen if an obstacle course and an elevator shaft had a baby. The best way to survive the whole ordeal is to collapse on the first turn and fall all the way to the bottom.

You’d think skiing wouldn’t be strenuous—all you have to do, after all, is start at the top and let gravity pull you to the dessert bar in the lodge. But at those elevations you’ll find about as much oxygen as you’ll find kindness from your children. It’s like spending six hours holding your breath.

By the end of the day, you’ll have body pain in a) your calf muscles and b) everywhere else. If you’ve fallen, your body will be covered with bruises and impact craters. If you haven’t, you’re sore where your muscles detached themselves from your skeletal system and tried to find someone else to attach to. Doctors will tell you to apply cold to the afflicted areas, which is ridiculous—you hurt because you’ve been falling in snow. Cold caused the pain! In my opinion, if you want to feel better, you should get into a hot tub and film a beer commercial.

You want to feel really better? Stay at home, and watch a game. Nobody ever crashed watching basketball.

Read this and WEEEEEP!!!

What Every Man Thinks About Apart From Sex


By Matt Blake, Daily Mail, 15th March 2011

When author Sheridan Simove sat down to write his new book, What Every Man Thinks About Apart From Sex, he drew a blank … literally.

So he had it published anyway with a front cover and 200 completely empty pages.

But it’s proved a hit and has outsold both Harry Potter and the Da Vinci Code within weeks of its release on cyber bookshop Amazon.com.

The £4.69 masterpiece has transcended its original purpose as a novelty gift, and is being used by students as a lecture notebook. And it’s selling by the thousands.

Nottingham university student Jess Lloyd told the Telegraph: ‘I bought a copy for my mate as a joke and he started using it as a note pad for lectures. Now everyone seems to have one. It’s started a real craze on campus.’

Mr Simove, 39, an Oxford University graduate, author, performer and entrepreneur, said: ‘I never anticipated that my book would be used for students to take their lecture notes in.

‘In a sense they are proving me wrong by filling my book with content. But I wonder how many of them go back to thinking about sex once the lecture is over.’

The item has sold out its first print run, slotting in at number 744 on Amazon’s list, ahead of Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code (2,910) and JK Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2,406).

What Every Man Thinks About Apart From Sex, rather unsurprisingly, took just nine days to complete, from conception to publication.

Mr Simove says his follow up is going to be called Reasons to Trust Politicians.

Truth Is Stranger And More Exciting Than Fiction

By Zig Ziglar, March 4, 2011

“Gone With The Wind” is the classic. “Scarlett” is the follow-up to the classic. However, the original story had more than just a kernel of truth in it. There was a Rhett Butler, but his real name was Rhett Turnipseed. Scarlett O’Hara was Emelyn Louise Hannon. Yes, Rhett did walk out on her and join the Confederate Army. When the war was over, Rhett Turnipseed became a drifter and gambler. He ended up in Nashville where his life was turned around on Easter morning in 1871 when he attended a Methodist revival meeting and converted to the Christian faith. Soon after, he enrolled at Vanderbilt University and became a Methodist preacher. Reverend Rhett was worried about a young woman in his flock who had run away and was working in a house of prostitution in St. Louis. Rhett rode off to look for her and found her. Incredibly enough, the madam was his former love, Emelyn Louise Hannon—or Scarlett. She refused to let Rhett see the young woman, so Rhett challenged her to a game of cards. If he won, the young girl would be free; if Scarlett won, she would remain. Rhett won.

Fortunately, the story ends well for everyone. The young girl married well and became the matriarch of a leading family in the state. Later, Emelyn, so impressed with the change in Rhett’s life, also converted and joined the Methodist church, and eventually opened an orphanage for Cherokee children. She died in 1903. Her grave is marked to this day.

The message is two-fold. First, truth really is stranger than fiction and, second, yes, people can change. From gambler to preacher and from madam to operator of an orphanage for displaced children represent quite a change. So don’t give up. You can change.

Fevers N' Baby...

Alas, my little baby woosel has a fever. I didn't take it too seriously yesterday; but when the fever did not break all night, and fluctuated in regular fever-fashion between 38.5 and 39.5 all day today, with no other apparent physical symptoms, I am inclined to consider taking her to the local clinic tomorrow (horrors, shivers-down-my-spine). I am a firm believer in allowing the body to heal itself according to God's well-planned design, and follow its natural cycles and courses as much as possible, without jumping into the medicine cabinet or running to the medicine man every time someone says 'ouch'... but there are times when consulting a doctor is the wisest course of action, particularly when the symptoms are strange or variable. Whether or not to submit to chemical treatment is, in my firm opinion, a strictly personal choice, especially in little matters like common colds, fevers, and ordinary ailments--which tend to follow a natural course on their own, with or without chemical remedies. But I have also learned to be thankful for doctors and medication, in those rare occasions when something turns out to be serious enough to require a professional's advice, assistance and care. My family and friends know that I am a bit on the leery side of the medical profession and pharmaceutical companies in general, nevertheless I hope I have acquired sufficient humility to admit that I do not know very much, and so am grateful for the wise counsels of competent doctors.

Please keep Chantal in your prayers; as fevers are difficult for any child, and whether it just blows over and goes away naturally, or is a precursor to some childhood disease, or whatever other reason, I'm praying that she stays safe and healthy, and that this fever does not spread among the other children in our home. Thank you! I'll post updates as things progress. We love you, and thank you for your prayers!

And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him. Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.

James 5:15-16

Library: Mere Christianity

Yesterday, I opened my email account, and there was a letter from my mom. "Cherie," it said, "As a BIG favor, would you be able to find the book 'Mere Christianity' by C.S. Lewis, and send it to me in a file rather than by mediafire?"

Her reasons for the latter, she said, was that since her internet connection in Madagascar is painfully slow and very costly, out-of-the-way and bulky storage sites like mediafire are inaccessible.

So I acquired the book for her, and then I thought, hmmm... must be good. I had a quick read of it and convinced myself that it's an excellent book, one which I intend to study in the very near future; and worth sharing with you here on this site.

http://www.mediafire.com/?n248g15d4g3jssb

Nevertheless, I want to state here for the record, that if anyone has any trouble downloading a file from my site, or if you'd like to acquire something that seems impossible to find, please let me know, and I'll be happy to send it to you, in the case of the former, or do my best to acquire it for you, in the latter case. And sharing interesting books and literary pieces for the edification of the whole, is, of course, the purpose behind this library and vintage depot. I love you!

Let Us Be Kind

We cannot know the grief

That men may borrow

We cannot know the souls

Storm-swept by sorrow

But love can shine upon the way

Today, tomorrow

Let us be kind.

Upon the wheel of pain

So many weary lives are broken

We live in vain

Who give no tender token

Let us be kind.

The Paradoxical Commandments

Today I had a lovely half-hour chat with Fofi, a dear friend of mine, and he mentioned that he was having some trouble in school. I asked what sort of trouble, thinking to dispense my usual big-sister-ish advice of "work first, play later" or "stand up for your conviction" etc, but he said that he's one of the best students in his class, and so some of the other tweens his age are jealous, and spite him, or leave him out of their circle. I felt bad for him, because he's a real friendly chap, not the arrogant sort, and it must be frustrating to be disliked for something that is in fact a brilliant asset--and anyway, it's not as if he can help it if he studies well and makes good grades.

I thought for a bit, and this poem by Kent Keith popped into my mind. The poem became very well known after it was apparently found written on the wall of Mother Teresa's room. Even though she is revered as an exalted example of Christ-likeness, we can each shine in our own personal sphere, just by doing what we know is right when the choice comes around.

The Paradoxical Commandments

by Dr. Kent M. Keith

People are illogical, unreasonable, and self-centered.

Love them anyway.

If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.

Do good anyway.

If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies.

Succeed anyway.

The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.

Do good anyway.

Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.

Be honest and frank anyway.

The biggest men and women with the biggest ideas can be shot down by the smallest men and women with the smallest minds.

Think big anyway.

People favor underdogs but follow only top dogs.

Fight for a few underdogs anyway.

What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.

Build anyway.

People really need help but may attack you if you do help them.

Help people anyway.

Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth.

Give the world the best you have anyway.

News From Madagascar

Just got the latest bulletin from my mom in Madagascar, and I'm taking the liberty to post it here.

Now I know everybody's got their own fields to plough, but these missionaries in particular are doing a FABULOUS work, and only with the spiritual and financial assistance of dokes like

YOU, ME, AND THE OTHER GUY

can they can continue to reach more needy people with the sweet love of Jesus and the material basics that impoverished Malagasies have hardly even heard of.

"Well," says you, "there are zillions of other places just like it all over the world. What's so special about Madagascar in particular?"

"Nothing," replies I, "except that NOW YOU KNOW ABOUT IT and now you can DO SOMETHING about it. :-D"

(If ye know these things, happy are ye if you do them, etc...)

Madagascar is a place where receiving a gift of five dollars makes your heart very happy (I oughtta know--I lived there myself for over two years), so please don't hesitate to fork up that bit of extra pocket money and send it right over. They need and deserve it!

The harvest is plenteous, but the labourers are few...

Here's the link to the newsletter. Dig the pix! Way to go, Eldee!

http://www.mediafire.com/?ivuv55vl2e92gf6

Prebirthday Meditations

My husband is a freelance digital artist. That means that he generally has flexible schedules. He can work all night, or all day, or in shifts--whatever suits the need.

But Friday won't work for him. And since changing dates of birth is not a feasible possibility, we opted for splitting the fun-time-together-day-out into separate slivers of time. Wednesday morning we went out for breakfast. Saturday afternoon we'll do some shopping. And then he's taking me out to dinner. Oh baby! Sunday we might go to town to celebrate Mother's Day and enjoy the confusion.

But what happened yesterday is what I would like to tell you about right now. The baby woke me up unusually early, which was, well, unusual; but that was just as well, because we had planned to leave early anyway. Luchi took Floppy for us, THANKS LUCHI!!!! We ambled off in the lovely morning sunshine to a cute little cafe down the street, and enjoyed a nice cup of coffee together, while the baby earnestly gnawed on those sturdy little sugar packets and whined for my coffee cup.

At one point while discussing what we should do to celebrate my erstwhile birthday, Danny asked me what I would like as a gift.

Now anyone who knows me slightly generally does not lack knowledge of my wishlists. I normally have an arm's length list of stuff I desire to possess. I'm actually not super possessive, but neither am I secretive with my wishes.

Anyway, I opened my mouth confidently, stopped, and gaped a bit. Danny got a little annoyed, assuming I was being modest with him (am I ever?).

But as I racked my brain, I realized that I have no true unfulfilled desires. Everything I wanted or thought I wanted, has already been granted. The only thing I really want is a Spanish Bible, but someone already told me that they'll try to get me one.

My mind kept racing, but what could I do? Aside from the everyday trinkets, I have no real needs or wants that have not already been provided for.

And it got me thinking about how marvelous God is. We're not rich, or opulent, or anything of the sort, but we don't lack for any of our needs. Paul said something like, "I have learned to abase and abound"... wait, here it is:

I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: everywhere and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need. (Philippians 4:12)

Anyway, we've been so very blessed in so many ways; I finally admitted the same to Danny, and he wholeheartedly agreed. We took some moments to thank Jesus together for His love and care, because, really, he's outdone himself again. Isn't Jesus worth living for?

The Owl Critic

One of my favorite poems, with a purty darn good lesson...

And by the way, I would like to dedicate it to MY DADDY, who, as I recall, likes owls very much. I love you, papa!!

The Owl Critic

"WHO stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop:

The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;

The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading

The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding

The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;

Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"

Cried the youth, with a frown,

"How wrong the whole thing is,

How preposterous each wing is,

How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is--

In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is!

I make no apology;

I've learned owl-eology.

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,

And cannot be blinded to any defections

Arising from unskilful fingers that fail

To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.

Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down,

Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"I've studied owls,

And other night fowls,

And I tell you

What I know to be true:

An owl cannot roost

With his limbs so unloosed;

No owl in this world

Ever had his claws curled,

Ever had his legs slanted,

Ever had his bill canted,

Ever had his neck screwed

Into that attitude.

He can't do it, because

'T is against all bird-laws.

Anatomy teaches,

Ornithology preaches

An owl has a toe

That can't turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years,

And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed

You should be so gone crazed

As to put up a bird

In that posture absurd!

To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;

The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise

Taxidermists should pass

Off on you such poor glass;

So unnatural they seem

They'd make Audubon scream,

And John Burroughs laugh

To encounter such chaff.

Do take that bird down;

Have him stuffed again, Brown!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

"With some sawdust and bark

I could stuff in the dark

An owl better than that.

I could make an old hat

Look more like an owl

Than that horrid fowl,

Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.

In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,

The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,

Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic

(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,

And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:

"Your learning's at fault this time, any way;

Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!"

And the barber kept on shaving.

James T. Fields

The Good, the Bad, and the Other Stuff

Thank God none of these are me...

There are days, and days...

Today has been a rather trying day. For one, I've gotten little sleep these past 3 or 4 nights, because Floppy, Chantal and I have bad colds and coughs, and wake each other up all throughout the night. Daddy isn't sick, but we keep him up, too, poor thing.

Anyway, today I woke up feeling exceptionally sickie. The new brand of nappies I got for the baby is sheer rubbish... I've been changing her entire outfit with every nappy change lately--3 or 4 times a day--and this morning she managed to soak through the blankets and sheets on my bed. Our washing machine is in the repair shop, and so I had to do our family's week-load of washing by hand. (Thank God for our spinner! It doesn't spin the clothes dry, but it cuts down on drying time, and avoids soggy dripping messes on the garage floor!)

I had the kids all day; I was so groggy in the morning, I dozed off, and awoke a few minutes later in time to see one of the kids throw a big piece of wood at the other, narrowly missing the head. Upon being sent on a time-out, the offending child put up a screaming howl for a full five minutes. By some miracle of God's mercy, I managed to keep my temper, though my head was pounding, and I heartily wished for a deserted island all to myself.

I finished washing laundry outside while the kids spread their toys out on the grass--we couldn't go upstairs for more than an hour because Danny was having an important conference call with his employer over skype. The baby kept fussing and crying in her stroller, so I picked her up in one arm, laid the basket of laundry in her stroller, and wheeled it towards the laundry lines. I felt faint suddenly, and the baby slipped out of my arm in a split second of weakness. Thank God for guardian angels! She fell forwards onto the hood of the stroller, unalarmed and unhurt. I was so shocked I had to sit down to catch my breath.

Highlight: I would like to personally thank Luchi for EVERYTHING today. Lack of wings are the only difference between her and an angel.

Later, Luchi helped me sneak the kids upstairs, and the kids and I watched a movie on my bed; the baby was tired and fussy and alternately nursed and fought me half the time... and then one of the kids knocked over the bowl of popcorn all over the bedspread and floor. When the movie finished, I put bouncdable music on for the kids, and tried to get the baby to be a happy thing while I went through the motions of cleaning the room.

To no avail. Well, the baby settled down some and the kids had a ripping blast playing with toy cars, blocks, tea set, dollies, stuffies and hairthings all at once. All over the floor. And the bed. And suddenly I realized that some of the toy cars were missing, and set out on a goosechase to find them in the backyard's gloomy dusk. Someone took that opportunity to comment to me, right around then, that I take such good care of my own things, but fail to show the same respect for others' stuff... ouch.

I slogged back upstairs, put an educational TV show for the kids, and wearily sorted through the mountains of toys scattered all over the room. Dinner summons came (oh joy! I didn't have to cook today!), and the kids scrambled downstairs. Not me. I almost finished cleaning my room, and gave the baby a colored bottle of water to play with, as she sat propped up with pillows on my bed. She loves shaking the bottle and watching the waves and bubbles. I combed Floppy's hair and comforted her (she was feeling grouchy, sniffly and sickie), and we had just succeeded in lightening our moods and tempers, when I turned around and noticed that the baby was chewing on a bottletop, and the bottle was lying empty on the bed ....

OH NO!!! Half a liter of water on my bed. It soaked through the bedspread, two quilts, and sheets, down to the mattress. There's no space on the laundry lines, and I don't have any spare quilts for tonight... I almost fainted; instead I had a good cry, and borrowed an iron. Yes, dears, I spent half an hour ironing the soak right out of the bed; the synthetic quilts I covered with a cotton cloth diaper. I opened the windows, of course, to avoid the bedroom turning into a sauna. My merciful husband took the baby for a while, and even vacuumed the floor for me while I pursued my steaming chore, berating myself inwardly for not noticing that the bottle-cap hadn't been properly screwed on before handing it to the baby. Or maybe she just unscrewed it herself, with her gums?? Beats me. I'll find out what happened if I ever remember to look in Heaven's archives, when I get there.

On a side-note, I have discovered that I grossly underrate my husband. Okay, so he's not the mushiest of fellers when I'm sick and just want to cuddle in bed and whine about my ouchies. God forbid he ever takes up nursing as a profession! I tend to complain and feel sorry for myself, because he doesn't usually do the "poor you" thing for me. But he's the solid type who, while refusing to rescue me prematurely, has never yet failed to ease my burden in the most sensible of ways, right when I need it the most. I tend to overlook his consideration because he rarely proffers his aid with a delighted willing smile--he tends to scowl when I get sick or in trouble--yet his help is invaluable to me, and in every situation of hardship or crisis, he plays his role valiantly, and does his best to relieve me.

There are some who show their sympathy with their words and facial expressions; others simply get in there and get the job done. In the long run, while the former may be momentarily comforting, the latter reflects true empathy, in my opinion. In other words, some people are handkerchiefs; others are bulwarks. Both are necessary; few are both.

Once the room was clean, the bed ironed-dry, the toys put away, and the kids put in bed, I realized I still hadn't eaten dinner, and I felt so low as I heard the others downstairs heartily laughing over some movie. That is, until I sat down to write this post. Then I realized that things that seem so bad at the moment are simply part of what make life so rich. No experience is ever as horrible as it seems; and how much happier we would be, were we to consider how very little each trying incident will matter in a year's time.

"If all my days were sunny, could I say,

'In His fair land He wipes all tears away'?

If I were never weary, could I keep

Close to my heart, 'He giveth His loves sleep'?

Were no graves dear, might I not come to deem

That life eternal is but a baseless dream?

My winter, and my tears, and weariness

Even my graves, may be His way to bless.

I call them ills, yet that can surely be

Nothing but love that shows my Lord to me."

I'm going to put the baby down now; she hasn't left my arms all evening. Hopefully she'll stay asleep long enough for me to run downstairs, make myself a lovely cup of chamomile tea, and heat up a heaping plate of spaghetti. Maybe I'll even fry an egg on top. Cheerio!

Behind Bars

Pope Leo XII, on a visit to the jail of the Papal States in 1825, insisted on questioning each of the prisoners as to how he had come to be there. Almost every man protested his innocence. Only one humbly admitted that he was a forger and a thief.

Turning to the prison superintendent, Pope Leo said sternly, "Release this rascal at once! I do not wish that his presence should corrupt all these noble gentlemen here!"