Living Life in the Small Things that Count

It all begins with small numbers. A few more drops of precipitation, a little more wind, a slight rise in the sea level, a couple of degrees difference in the elevation of the moon. Great forces are born in small numbers, in the increments of existence, the mathematics of our physical being. And as with the natural, so with the spiritual; a tiny bit more kindness, a single hope, a small increase in giving, a few more prayers, another moment of patience. Great souls are not instant in being, but being made up of instants. Life without and within, lived in the small things that count.

Retired Bishop Steven Charleston Episcopal, Choctaw

A Defining Moment

 

Desmond Tutu, the former Archbishop of Cape Town and a leading anti-apartheid campaigner, was once asked to describe a turning point in his life. He replied with this inspirational story:

“The biggest defining moment in my life was when I saw Trevor Huddleston (the former president of the anti-apartheid movement), and I was maybe nine or so. I didn't know it was Trevor Huddleston  but I saw this tall, white priest in a black cassock doff his hat to my mother who was a black domestic worker. I didn't know then that it would affect me so much, but it blew your mind that a white man would doff his hat to a black domestic worker. And subsequently I discovered, of course, that this was quite consistent with his theology that every person is of significance, of infinite value, because they are created in the image of God. And the passion with which he opposed apartheid and any other injustice is something that I sought then to emulate.”

“The master answered, 'You did well. You are a good and loyal servant. Because you were loyal with small things, I will let you care for much greater things. Come and share my joy with me.” ~Matthew 25:21 (NCV)

TRUTH

A blind boy sat on the steps of a building with a hat by his feet.  He held up a sign which said: “I am blind, please help.”  There were only a few coins in the hat.

A man was walking by. He took a few coins from his pocket and dropped them into the hat. He then took the sign, turned it around, and wrote some words. He put the sign back so that everyone who walked by would see the new words.

Soon the hat began to fill up.  A lot more people were giving money to the blind boy.

That afternoon the man who had changed the sign came to see how things were.   The boy recognized his footsteps and asked, “Were you the one who changed my sign this morning?  What did you write?”

The man said, “I only wrote the truth. I said what you said but in a different way.  I wrote: Today is a beautiful day, but I cannot see it.”

Both signs told people that the boy was blind. But the first sign simply said the boy was blind. The second sign told people that they were so lucky that they were not blind. Should we be surprised that the second sign was more effective?

Moral of the Story:  Be thankful for what you have.  Be creative. Be innovative. Think differently and positively. When life gives you a 100 reasons to cry, show life that you have 1000 reasons to smile.   Face your past without regret. Handle your present with confidence.  Prepare for the future without fear.   Keep the faith and drop the fear.

The most beautiful thing is to see a person smiling.  And even more beautiful, is knowing that you are the reason behind it!!! ~unknown

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free."

John 8:32 (TNIV)

I.N.J.

Choices

"One who seeks a flaw will always find it. Just as one who seeks what is good will always find it. What you seek will determine your path. Seek wisely...."

~ John Two-Hawks http://www.johntwohawks.com/

You Have Two Choices

Jerry is the manager of a restaurant. He is always in a good mood.

When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would always reply: 
'If I were any better, I would be twins!' Many of the waiters at his restaurant quit their jobs when he changed jobs, so they could follow him around from restaurant to restaurant.

Why？ 
…because Jerry was a natural motivator.

If an employee was having a bad day, Jerry was always there, telling him how to look on the positive side of the situation. Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Jerry and asked him： 
'I don't get it! No one can be a positive person all of the time. How do you do it?'

Jerry replied, 'Each morning I wake up and say to myself, I have two choices today. I can choose to be in a good mood or I can choose to be in a bad mood.

I always choose to be in a good mood. Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be victim or I can choose to learn from it. I always choose to learn from it. 
Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or I can point out the positive side of life. I always choose the positive side of life.' 
'But it's not always that easy,' I protested. 'Yes it is,' Jerry said. 'Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk every situation is a choice.

You choose how you react to situations. 
You choose how people will affect your mood. 
You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. 
It's your choice how you live your life.'

Several years later, I heard that Jerry accidentally did something you are never supposed to do in the restaurant business. He left the back door of his restaurant open And then in the morning, he was robbed by three armed men. While Jerry trying to open the safe box, his hand, shaking from nervousness, slipped off the combination. The robbers panicked and shot him.

Luckily, Jerry was found quickly and rushed to the hospital.

After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Jerry was released from the hospital with fragments of the bullets still in his body....

I saw Jerry about six months after the accident.

When I asked him how he was, he replied, 'If I were any better, I'd be twins. Want to see my scars?' I declined to see his wounds, but did ask him what had gone through his mind as the robbery took place.

'The first thing that went through my mind was that I should have locked the back door,' Jerry replied. 'Then, after they shot me, as I lay on the floor, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live or could choose to die. I chose to live.'

'Weren't you scared' I asked?

Jerry continued, 'The paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine.

But when they wheeled me into the Emergency Room and I saw the expression on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read 'He's a dead man. I knew I needed to take action.'

'What did you do?' I asked.

'Well, there was a big nurse shouting questions at me,' said Jerry. 'She asked if I was allergic to anything.' 'Yes,' to bullets, I replied.

Over their laughter, I told them: 'I am choosing to live. Please operate on me as if I am alive, not dead.'

'Jerry lived thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude.

I learned from him that every day you have the choice to either enjoy your life or to hate it.

The only thing that is truly yours - that no one can control or take from you - is your attitude,

so if you can take care of that, everything else in life becomes much easier.

“I call heaven and earth to witness against you today that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live.”  Deuteronomy 30:19

I.N.J. 

Mom's Journey is Over - The Victory is Won

Native American Prayer

I give you this thought to keep –

I am with you still – I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

 I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning hush,

I am the swift, uplifting rush

of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not think of me as gone –

I am with you still – in each new dawn.

If you don’t already know, my mother Freda H. Wilcoxson died peacefully in her home with family at the bedside on October 4, 2012. The prayer above was sent to me by our good friends Pete and Gail Pharr and has deep and comforting meaning to me. I have been humbled by the huge number of Facebook posts, texts, e-mails, and phone calls that I have received.  They have provided great support and comfort. I am, with my family, deeply touched by your thoughts, love, and prayers. I am certain that mom is looking on you with joy in her heart.

I hope that this prayer will help you through your personal losses. All of you are a part of my family. With God’s help and each other we can walk through the worst of times and the most joyous of occasions. God bless you.

The Memorial service will be held on:

Monday October 15, 2012 at 4pm

The Episcopal Church of the Messiah,

260 North Woodland St.,

Winter Garden, FL 34787,

407-656-3212

“I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they'll 'say something about it' or not. I hate if they do, and if they don't.”
― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

The Language of Tears

A close friend of mine recently had her first child. I had the opportunity to visit with them a few months ago and to meet her new little one. At three months old, her baby makes all the typical sweet coos and sounds that endear newborns to their adult admirers. He would even offer a tiny laugh when I would make a silly face at him. And then, seemingly out of the blue, he would cry. What amazed me was how his mother knew just what the cries indicated. Sometimes it was anger at being put on his stomach; sometimes it was a cry for food; other times, it was the weary crying of his fighting off inevitable sleep. What was amazing to me was that as I listened carefully, I could begin to hear the difference between the various cries of his limited, yet profound vocabulary. On a cross-country air flight, I was overwhelmed by the plaintive cries of a young child in the row behind me. I immediately thought of my friend. Like my friend’s newborn, I thought of how the child was trying to communicate with his mother through the only means available to him. With each piercing wail, the tears streamed down my own eyes. And I thought about how my own tears were the only way I could express the place of deep sorrow that arose in me as I listened to wave after wave of his sobs. There is something about a baby’s cries that connects to someplace deep inside of me. For most, especially when sitting on a crowded plane as we were, the sound of a baby crying pierces ears like a scratch on a chalkboard or the siren of an emergency vehicle. But for me, the cries of all young children vocalize all that I cannot say and all that I feel inside. From plaintive wail to frustrated, angry cries, whether they emerge from my friend’s child, a child beside me on the plane, or in the schoolyard across from my home, these cries articulate the deepest yearnings of my own heart. In this particular case, the young child’s cries connected to deep losses I had suffered. His cries told stories of grief and heartache I bore in my own spirit on behalf of friends and loved ones. His tears expressed for me the bitter sorrow over lost opportunity, frittered years, idle moments when opportunity might have been seized rather than squandered. And so, I cried with the child—the child vocalizing all that I could not say, but that which I deeply felt. Many times, our response to tears is to admonish them away. “Don’t cry,” “be thankful” or “look on the bright side” are dismissive statements, as much as they are meant to comfort. Yet, there are so many moments in life that cannot be expressed or soothed by words. They are too deep, too visceral to be simply captured by a clever turn of phrase. Instead, tears are the necessary articulation of our hearts, speaking out the groans too deep to be uttered. Indeed, tears are a language of their own. Whenever I am tempted to dismiss them or to try to overcome them, I am encouraged towards their free expression because of the way in which my Christian faith values them. Throughout the sacred pages of Scripture, there are tears. The tears of the grieving, the weary, and even the joyful—tears speak what the mouth cannot say. The psalmist speaks of God gathering up tears in a bottle, writing them in a book, as if they tell a unique story. The apostle Paul speaks of the Spirit groaning with utterances too deep for words. The ancient Hebrew prophet, Jeremiah, is often called “the weeping prophet” and Isaiah characterizes the “suffering servant” as “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” Christians believe that it was this suffering servant, Jesus, who wept at the tomb of his friend Lazarus, moved by the weeping of Mary, Martha and all those who had gathered to mourn his loss. He didn’t just shed a single tear; he wept, crying out in anguish over the death of Lazarus. In a world that values strength, stoicism, and in contrast to those traditions that espouse detachment, I find myself comforted that there is room for my tears, value in grief, and a God who comes near to the brokenhearted. Furthermore, if as Christians affirm, Jesus presents a living picture of what God is like, then tears are not foreign to God. God is not removed from human pain, but has borne under it in the flesh, in Jesus. Our tears are understood, welcomed and honored by a God who feels. And this gives me great hope for the all too frequent days when tears are as much a part of my days as laughter. And it helps me better understand Jesus’ own words of blessing on those who mourn: Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted. If all of this is true, then let the tears flow freely, just as they do when the young child cries. Margaret Manning is a member of the writing and speaking team at Ravi Zacharias International Ministries in Seattle, Washington. 2012 Released on 10/09/12 In ‘A Slice of Infinity’ newsletter RZIM

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4 For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: ² a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; ³ a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; ⁴ a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance

...against wisdom evil does not prevail.

“It is better to lead from behind and to put others in front, especially when you celebrate victory when nice things occur. You take the front line when there is danger. Then people will appreciate your leadership.” 
Nelson Mandela 

This is a fictional story that was written for Home Life Magazine by Elizabeth Silance Ballard in 1979. It became one of the most requested stories in the magazine’s history. A tissue may come in handy when reading.

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big 'F' at the top of his papers.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, 'Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners... he is a joy to be around...’

His second grade teacher wrote, 'Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.'

His third grade teacher wrote, 'His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest, and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken.   Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, 'Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class.'

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself… She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume… But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, 'Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.'

After the children left, she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her 'teacher's pets...'

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer.... The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, 'Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.'

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back... She said, 'Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you.'

For wisdom is a reflection of eternal light,
a spotless mirror of the working of God,
and an image of his goodness.
Although she is but one, she can do all things,
and while remaining in herself, she renews all things;
in every generation she passes into holy souls
and makes them friends of God, and prophets;
for God loves nothing so much as the person who lives with wisdom.
She is more beautiful than the sun,
and excels every constellation of the stars.
Compared with the light she is found to be superior,
for it is succeeded by the night,
but against wisdom evil does not prevail.
She reaches mightily from one end of the earth to the other,
and she orders all things well. 
Wisdom of Solomon 7:26-8:1

I.N.J.

17 1/2 by 17 1/2

I subscribe to the blogs a Deeper Story, A Deeper Family, and A Deeper Church. This post touched me in a way that leads me to share it with you. If it touches you too, please go to these blogs and go deeper...

from A Deeper Story » Story by Elora

17 1/2 inches by 17 1/2 inches.
This was Emily Dickinson’s desk.
Makoto Fujimara says this is all the space one needs to change culture. He reminds us to create in quiet – to usher in holy by letting the soil ruminate.
Because every good farmer knows the best kind of soil goes through many winters. 
And I sit there and wonder – what does my soil look like? When I sift through it, does magic come of it – do I sit long enough to let Him whisper through me? Do I run to the approval of others in order to figure out if what I’ve created is any good?
I’m not sure I like the answers.
I’m not sure I understand the importance of allowing my soil to sit through winter. That sounds uncomfortable. It sounds like it stings a little bit. But I know it’s true. Know it in the marrow of my bones where I feel the burning when it’s time to speak.
I listen to Fujimara, and think of Dickinson’s small desk, and am fairly certain I’ve been doing it wrong.
Because my desk? It’s not just the wooden desk hiding in a closet. Far too often, my desk stretches to others – far too often I let the fear of what they may think or how I will be viewed take precedence.
I let things like artistry turn into platform. Things like followers turn into leverage.
And almost immediately, things like my words disappear.
Isn’t it amazing? Countless times in Scripture we’re reminded that much will be made of the little, but here we are, aching to be big again. We stretch our desks to as big as we can make them, and try to set fire to someone else’s when we see they’ve got a broader scope.
We’re like the modern day Tower of Babel – stretching as far as we can out of soil spent.
Listen closely :: it doesn’t have to be this way.
If you have words, write them. If you have brush strokes, paint them. But by all means – do it out of your winters. Do it from your desk that spans no more than a few inches and  fight the urge to spread wide the knowledge.
Keep it holy. Keep it quiet.
And when you’re finished, scatter the seeds wide and watch them grow.

I.N.J.