This blog will hopefully inspire you, warm your heart, make you smile and feel positive.

Posts tagged ‘Reblog’

Good News

Robert De Vincenzo, the great Argentine golfer, once won a tournament and, after receiving the check and smiling for the cameras, he went to the clubhouse and prepared to leave. Sometime later, he walked alone to his car in the parking lot and was approached by a young woman. She congratulated him on his victory and then told him that her child was seriously ill and near death. She did not know how she could pay the doctor’s bills and hospital expenses.

De Vincenzo was touched by her story, and he took out a pen and endorsed his winning check for payment to the woman. “Make some good days for the baby,” he said as he pressed the check into her hand.

The next week he was having lunch in a country club when an official of the golf association came to his table. “Some of the boys in the parking lot last week told me you met a young woman there after you won that tournament.” De Vincenzo nodded.

“Well,” said the official, “I have news for you. She’s a phony. She has no sick baby. She’s not even married. She fleeced you, my friend.”

“You mean there is no baby who is dying?” asked De Vincenzo.

“That’s right,” said the official.

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week,” De Vincenzo said.

A Trucker’s Last Letter

Steamboat Mountain is a man-killer. The road curves and twists over the mountain and sheer cliffs drop away sharply from the road. Countless trucks and truckers have been lost there.

One day in winter, the police noticed the sun shining off some chrome down the cliff and found the remains of a truck there. The driver was dead. The police guessed he had gone over the side two days ago before a snowstorm arrived.

A letter was found with the driver. He might live for a couple of hours until the cold got to him. The letter is as follows:

My Darling Wife,

This is a letter that no man ever wants to write, but I’m lucky enough to have some time to say what I’ve forgotten to say so many times. I love you, sweetheart.

You used to kid me that I loved the truck more than you because I spent more time with her. I do love this truck. She’s seen me through tough times and tough places. I could always count on her in a long haul and she was speedy in the stretches. She never let me down.

But you want to know something? I love you for the same reasons. You’ve seen me through the tough times and places, too.

Remember the first truck? It kept us broke all the time. So, you went out and got a job so that we could pay the rent and the bills. Every cent I made went into the truck while your money kept us in food with a roof over our heads.

I remember that I complained about the truck, but I don’t remember you ever complaining when you came home tired from work and I asked you for money to go on the road again. If you did complain, I guess I didn’t hear you. I was too wrapped up with my problems to think of yours.

I think now of all the things you gave up for me. The clothes, the holidays, the parties, the friends. You never complained and somehow I never remembered to thank you for being you. It was your sacrifices and determination as much as mine that finally got the new truck.

I was so proud of the new truck. I was proud of you too, but I never told you that. I took it for granted, but if I had spent as much as time talking with you as I did polishing chrome, perhaps I would have.

In all the years I’ve pounded the pavement, I always knew your prayers rode with me. But this time I probably cannot make it. I want to say the things that should have been said so many times before. The things that were forgotten because I was too concerned about the truck and the job.

I’m thinking about the missed anniversaries and birthdays. The school plays and hockey games that you went alone because I was on the road.

I’m thinking about the lonely nights you spent alone, wondering where I was and how things were going. I’m thinking of all the times I thought of calling you just to say hello and somehow didn’t get around to. I’m thinking of the peace of mind I had knowing that you were at home with the kids, waiting for me.

The family dinners where you spent all your time telling your folks why I couldn’t make it. I was busy changing oil; I was busy looking for parts; I was sleeping because I was leaving early the next morning. There was always a reason, but somehow they don’t seem very important to me right now.

When we were married, you didn’t know how to change a light bulb. Within a couple of years, you were fixing the furnace during a blizzard while I was waiting for a load in Florida. You became a pretty good mechanic, helping me with repairs, and I was mighty proud of you when you jumped into the cab and backed up over the rose bushes.

I was proud of you when I pulled into the yard and saw you sleeping in the car waiting for me. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon, you’re beautiful, you know. I guess I haven’t told you that lately, but you are.

I made lots of mistakes in my life, but if I only ever made one good decision, it was when I asked you to marry me. You never could understand what it was that kept me trucking. I couldn’t either, but it was my way of life and you stuck with me. Good times, bad times, you were always there. I love you, sweetheart, and I love the kids.

It’s funny I guess, but what I have now is the truck that ruled over our lives for so long. But it can’t return my love. Only you can do that. For the first time since we’ve been together, I’m really alone. I need you so badly, and I know it’s too late.

You’re a thousand miles away but I feel you here with me. I can see your face and feel your love and I’m scared to make the final run alone.

Tell the kids that I love them very much and if possible, don’t let the boys drive any truck for a living.

I guess that’s about it, I love you very much, honey. Take care of yourself and always remember that I loved you more than anything in life. I just forgot to tell you.

I love you,

Keep Your Fork

The sound of Aunt Martha’s voice on the other end of the telephone always brought a smile to Brother Jim’s face. She was one of the oldest members of the congregation, and also one of the most faithful. This time, however, there seemed to be an unusual tone to her words.

“Preacher, could you stop by this afternoon? I need to talk to you.”

“Of course, I’ll be there around three.”

As they sat facing each other in the quiet of her small living room, Jim learned the reason for what he sensed in her voice. Martha shared the news that her doctor had just discovered a previously undetected tumor.

“He says I probably have six months to live.” Martha’s words were certainly serious, yet there was a definite calm about her.

“I’m so sorry to …” but before Jim could finish, Martha interrupted.

“Don’t be. The Lord has been good. I have lived a long life. I’m ready to go. You know that.”

“I know,” Jim whispered with a reassuring nod.

“But I do want to talk with you about my funeral. I have been thinking about it, and there are things that I know I want.”

They then talked about Martha’s funeral plan quietly for a long time. When it seemed that they had covered just about everything, Martha paused, looked up at Jim with a twinkle in her eye, and then added, “One more thing, preacher. When they bury me, I want my old Bible in one hand and a fork in the other?”

“A fork?” Jim was surprised. “Why do you want to be buried with a fork?”

“At those nice get-togethers, when the meal was almost finished, a server or the hostess would come by to collect the dirty dishes. Sometimes, at the best ones, somebody would lean over my shoulder and whisper, ‘You can keep your fork.’ And do you know what that meant? Dessert was coming!”

“It didn’t mean a cup of Jell-O or pudding or even a dish of ice cream. You don’t need a fork for that. It meant the good stuff, like chocolate cake or cherry pie! When they told me I could keep my fork, I knew the best was yet to come!”

“That’s exactly what I want people to talk about at my funeral. They can talk about all the good times we had together. That would be nice. But when they walk by my casket, I want them to turn to one another and say, ‘Why the fork?’ ”

“That’s what I want you to say. I want you to tell them that I kept my fork because the best is yet to come.”

No Charge

The little boy came up to his mom in the kitchen one evening while she was fixing supper, and he handed her a piece of paper that he had been writing on. After his mom dried her hands on an apron, she read it, and this is what it said:

For cutting grass: $5.00
For cleaning up my room this week: $1.00
For going to the store for you: $0.50
Baby-sitting my kid brother while you went shopping: $0.25
Taking out the garbage: $1.00
For getting a good report card: $5.00
For cleaning up and raking the yard: $2.00
Total owed: $14.75

His mom looked at him standing there expectantly, memory flashing through her mind. She picked up the pen, turned over the paper he’d written on, and this is what she wrote:

For the nine months I carried you while you were growing inside me: $0.00
For all the nights that I’ve sat up with you, doctored and prayed for you: $0.00
For all the trying times, and all the tears that you’ve caused through the years: $0.00
For all the nights that were filled with dread, and for the worries I knew were ahead: $0.00
For the toys, food, clothes, and even wiping your nose: $0.00
When you add it all up, the cost of my love is No Charge.

When the little boy finished reading what his mom had written, there were tears in his eyes, and he looked straight up at his mother and said, “Mom, I sure do love you.” And then he took the pen and in big letters he wrote on his side of the paper: “PAID IN FULL”.

Whiskey and Worms

A chemistry teacher wanted to teach his fifth-grade class a lesson about the evils of liquor, so he produced an experiment that involved a glass of water, a glass of whiskey and two worms.

“Now, class. Observe the worms closely,” said the teacher, putting a worm first into the water. The worm in the water writhed about, happy as a worm in water could be. The second worm, he put into the whiskey. It writhed painfully, and quickly sank to the bottom, dead as a door-nail.

“Now, what lesson can we derive from this experiment?” the teacher asked.

Little Johnny, who sits in the back, raised his hand and responded, “Drink whiskey and you won’t get worms?”

An Act of Kindness

President Abraham Lincoln often visited hospitals to talk with wounded soldiers during the Civil War. Once, doctors pointed out a young soldier who was near death and Lincoln went over to his bedside.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked the President.

The soldier obviously didn’t recognize Lincoln, and with some effort he was able to whisper, “Would you please write a letter to my mother?”

A pen and paper were provided and the President carefully began writing down what the young man was able to say:

“My dearest mother, I was badly hurt while doing my duty. I’m afraid I’m not going to recover. Don’t grieve too much for me, please. Tell Mary I love her and kiss the kids for me. May God bless you and father.”

The soldier was too weak to continue, so Lincoln signed the letter for him and added, “Written for your son by Abraham Lincoln.”

The young man asked to see the note and was astonished when he discovered who had written it. “Are you really the President?” he asked.

“Yes, I am,” Lincoln replied quietly. Then he asked if there was anything else he could do.

“Would you please hold my hand?” the soldier asked. “It will help to see me through to the end.”

In the hushed room, the tall gaunt President took the boy’s hand in his and spoke warm words of encouragement until death came.

Appointment with Love

Six minutes to six, said the great round clock over the information booth in the train station. Lieutenant Blandford was excited. In six minutes, he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the past 13 months. The woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had been with him and sustained him unfailingly.

In one of his letters, he had confessed to her that he often felt fear in fighting the battle. He had received her answer: “Of course you fear … all brave men do. Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you: ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow 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.

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

People were walking fast. 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 is too young, about 18, whereas Hollis Meynell had frankly told him she was 30.

It was all started from that book, Of Human Bondage, which was sent with hundreds of Army library books to the training camp and finally read by Lieutenant Blandford. Throughout the book were notes in a woman’s writing. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man’s heart so tenderly and understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Meynell. He had got hold of a telephone book and found her address. He had written and she had answered. Next day, he had been shipped out but they had gone on writing.

For 13 months, she had faithfully replied, and more than replied. When his letters did not arrive, she wrote back. He now believed he loved her and she loved him. But she had refused to send him her photograph. She explained, “If your feeling for me has any reality, any honest basis, what I look like won’t matter. When you come back, you shall see me and then you shall make your decision. Remember, both of us are free to stop or to go on after that – whichever we choose …”

One minute to six, Lieutenant Blandford’s heart leaped with excitement.

A young woman in a pale green suit was coming toward him. Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears. Her eyes were blue, her lips and chin had a gentle firmness.

He started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was wearing no little red rose, and as he moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.

“Going my way, soldier?” she murmured.

Uncontrollably, he made one step closer to her. Then he saw the real Hollis Meynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She wore a red rose in the rumpled lapel of her brown coat.

The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. Although Blandford was keen to follow the girl, the woman whose spirit had truly companioned and upheld his own was standing in front of him. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible. He could see her gray eyes had a warm, kindly twinkle.

Lieutenant Blandford did not hesitate. He gripped the small leather copy of Of Human Bondage, which directed him to her. He squared his broad shoulders, saluted and held the book out toward the woman, although even while he spoke he felt shocked by the bitterness of his disappointment.

“I’m Lieutenant John Blandford, and I assume you are Miss Meynell. 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 out with you, I should tell you that she’s waiting for you in the restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of a test. I’ve got two boys myself, so I didn’t mind to oblige you.”