If I Die Before You Wake- Tribute to our Military

I am a little late in getting this posted for Memorial Day, but wanted to go ahead and post this video anyway.

The Men and Women who serve in the Military are not just appreciated on Memorial Day, but every day. Thank You so much for your service.

Veteran's you are not forgotten. Thank You for your time served. It is unfortunate that some have paid the ultimate price, and to your family our hearts break for you.

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Where is God

Many of us are Facebook Addicts and from time to time there is that one post that stops you in your tracks. This post i am sharing with you today is one of them.

Posted by Moore Oklahoma Lost and Found:

This post just stopped me dead in my tracks. Even if you are not overly religious, or struggling with your faith in the wake of such a horrific event, this post just brought so much light onto everything, and literally added a burning light to my already over filled heart. Please share these words, originally by "Chris... Daub" and shared here by Connie Sumpter-Cannon...

Amidst the countless posts about the tornado that devastated Moore, Oklahoma, i read this desperate question posted by one.... Where is God?.... I pondered this as i quietly prayed in tears .... Here is my feeble, humble attempt at an answer:..God is in the rubble where one was protected. God is in the rescuer whose hand pulls them out. God is in the teacher who sacrificed selflessly as a shield for precious students. God is in the comfort given to one whose lost everything, the tears shed with another as they say goodbye to things and people precious to them. God is in those who rally together to bring help, hope and comfort to those who are suffering. He is in every kind act, every hand outstretched, every tear shed and every prayer spoken. God is the outpouring of love that is rising from the rubble, He is the beauty being raised from these ashes. God is the determination to keep searching for that one, to get thru the pain and loss and devastation, to keep digging and when the worst is over-to rise and build again. In fact, it occurs to me now, it would be far easier to answer where God isn't.

I encourage you to step up, be Gods hands outstretched to those who are suffering. Be a voice in prayer for those who have no prayer in their heart. Hope for those who at this moment cannot hope. Vision for those who cannot see past their own pain and loss. Cry the tears for those who have no tears left to shed. Give what God had given you to give. Rally together and bear the burdens of our brothers and sisters in Oklahoma. Answer their desperate question and let's show them exactly where God is!

A Pound of Butter

"There was a farmer who sold a pound of butter to the baker. One day the baker decided to weigh the butter to see if he was getting a pound and he found that he was not.

This angered him and he took the farmer to court.

The judge asked the farmer if he was using any measure. The farmer replied, Your Honor, I am primitive. I don't have a proper measure, but I do have a scale." 

The judge asked, "Then how do you weigh the butter?" 

The farmer replied "Your Honor, long before the baker started buying butter from me, I have been buying a pound loaf of bread from him. Every day when the baker brings the bread, I put it on the scale and give him the same weight in butter. If anyone is to blame it is the baker"

This story goes to show that we get just what we give..... Have you given what you would like to receive?

Oklahoma Pride

I came across this poem written by Jamey Curry. I do not know this person but I think Jamey's words say it all... I am proud to be on Okie and am proud that it has been broadcast for the world to see that we are a God loving and a prayerful state and we don't  care who knows! 


You Can Blow Us Up
But You Can't Break Us Down
We Will Rebuild
In Every Town

When One Man Falls
Ten Will Rise
To Dust HIm Off,
And Stand By His Side

Our Hearts Are Broken
For Those We've Lost
Homes Destroyed 
Vehicles Tossed

Takes More Than Wind
To Break Our Stride
Standing United 
That's Oklahoma Pride

Our hearts and prayers go out to the victims of the Shawnee and Moore tornadoes and also to the family of Wes Canfield. May you find comfort and strength in he days to come. 

They Don't Walk In Your Shoes

We ducked into the dimly lit thrift shop to get out of the rain. Like so many things since our daughter's birth, I hadn't planned on a trip to this place. But I figured we'd see what they had since we were there.

'Hi, today is stuff a bag day. Would you like one?' the clerk asked.

'What is stuff a bag day?'

'You take a bag and stuff it with what ever you want and it's only $3. Best deal in town.'

'Okay, sounds great,' I said, despite the fact I hadn't planned on buying anything.

I took my six-year-old daughter's hand and we started to wander around. Suddenly there was a tug on my hand and my attention was being directed to the shoe section. She shares my weakness for shoes, so we stopped for a minute to look. I let go of her hand and she reached out to touch a pair of shiny black shoes with a strap and silver buckle.

'Buy me?' she inquires.

'Oh, Sweetie, they are tap shoes. You aren't taking tap.'

'Buy me?' she repeats.

'Well, let's try them on.'

She sits on the floor and removes her bright pink rain boots, with Barbie on the sides, and easily slides the new shoes on. A perfect fit. When she stands up she hears 'click.' She takes a step. Click, Click. Slowly recognition dawns, as she makes the connection between the shoes and her moving feet. Click, Click, Click.

'Buy me?' with a hopeful look in her eyes. Again, 'Buy me, peas?'

'Okay Sweetie, take them off and put them in the bag.'

We look around some more and get a few t-shirts, pants, books and games and a naked baby doll.

Well, it's stuff a bag day - might as well get my money's worth, I think to myself.

The sun has come back out as we emerge from our little side trip and we continue on our way. As we near the car, Amara reaches for the bag. As she climbs into the back seat, I give her the bag wondering what treasure she is looking for. The shoes, of course. She is my daughter after all.

'My wear.'

It's not a question, so I took the tag off and helped her with the buckle. Our next stop was the grocery store and these shoes were made to make noise, especially on my little girl's feet. This could be interesting...

Click, Click, Click - people turn to look as we enter the store.

Click, click, click. I can feel the disapproving stares of the proper people. People who would never allow their daughter to wear tap shoes to the grocery store. I hold my head up with pride. The click, click, click is music to my ears.

'Excuse me dear. Is your daughter in tap this year?'

'No.' I replied.

'Well why on earth would you allow her to wear tap shoes, here, of all places? They make such a noise.'

'Yes, isn't it wonderful?'

'Wonderful? My dear, this is not the place to wear those shoes.'

'Oh, I think this is the perfect place to wear them. You see she asked for them.'

'Just because she asked for them, doesn't mean you have to get them for her.'

'You don't understand,' I said.

'When she was a baby, we were told she would never walk or talk. It has taken a lot of hard work and patience but she asked for the shoes and the click, click, click says that she can walk.'

My daughter, who is always on the move, is 18 now and will graduate from grade 12 in June. It has not always been easy, but it has all been worthwhile. She has taught me that it doesn't matter what others think. They don't walk in your shoes.

And just like the ladies in the purple hats*, sometimes you simply have to wear tap shoes to the grocery store - if for nothing else, just for the sheer joy of hearing the click, click, click.
* Ladies in purple hats are groups of women who have reached a certain age and now can allow themselves to enjoy life without fear of what others think.

Written by Pauline Fraser


“If I care to listen to every criticism, let alone act on them, then this shop may as well be closed for all other businesses. I have learned to do my best, and if the end result is good then I do not care for any criticism, but if the end result is not good, then even the praise of ten angels would not make the difference." ~~Abraham Lincoln

Knowing What I Know About Heaven

This past weekend my family laid to rest a wonderful lady. Thinking back over the years of my childhood, i can not remember a time that when we had a family gathering of the "Keltch Clan" that she was not there. Her children were among my favorite cousins and have many fond memories with them. We are going to miss you Jo Ann Keltch.

I want to share this song that was sang by Les Castor at her services. He did an amazing job singing this song and the words are just beautiful.

This last week was devastating to many people with the tornadoes in Texas and many are grieving the loss of a loved one. Many you find comfort in the words of this song.

~~ Tracy

Knowing What I Know About Heaven

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Things Work Out

Because it rains when we wish it wouldn't,
Because men do what they often shouldn't,
Because crops fail, and plans go wrong-
Some of us grumble all day long.
But somehow, in spite of the care and doubt,
It seems at last that things work out.

Because we lose where we hoped to gain,
Because we suffer a little pain,
Because we must work when we'd like to play-
Some of us whimper along life's way.
But somehow, as day always follows the night,
Most of our troubles work out all right.

Because we cannot forever smile,
Because we must trudge in the dust awhile,
Because we think that the way is long-
Some of us whimper that life's all wrong.
But somehow we live and our sky grows bright,
And everything seems to work out all right.

So bend to your trouble and meet your care,
For the clouds must break, and the sky grow fair.
Let the rain come down, as it must and will,
But keep on working and hoping still.
For in spite of the grumblers who stand about,
Somehow, it seems, all things work out.

Poet: Edgar A. Guest

Left Behind

They're gone now. I stood in the driveway and watched my grown children drive off into the distance. I looked down the road until I could no longer see their vehicles.

"They live way too far away from me", I said to myself. "When did they grow up and become parents of small children? Shouldn't that be me?"

I slipped back inside the house and just walked through the rooms for no reason in particular. I was just missing them already and looking for signs of their having been here. There were pillows on the floor where they had been tossed from the couch that had been used for a bed and a few stuffed animals lying around where the children had been playing.

I smiled at the little fingerprints on my mirror. I didn't wipe them off. I thought back to the time when I tried so hard to keep the fingerprints off the mirrors and doors when my children were small. Now, I wanted the tiny fingerprints to stay so that I could see them there just a little longer. Oh, I knew I would eventually clean the glass doors and the mirror but for now, they remained a work of art, a collage of tiny fingerprints for my viewing.

As I walked around the house, I picked up a few items on the floor and straightened a chair. I decided to sort through the toy box and I found a flying dinosaur, a skeleton, and a Frankenstein that had mysteriously taken up residence in my box of toys. It always amazes me how Ben, the five-year-old connoisseur of toys, remembers the items in the toy box and knows whom they belong to and if anything is missing.

I walked into the kitchen and there on the back of the sink was a bottlebrush that had been left behind. "Ah, even Tessa left something behind," I announced. Well, I suppose she had help since she is just four months old.

"I wonder what else has been left behind," I said out loud to no one in particular. My husband heard me and joined the search for things left behind.

It seems like every time our family gets together something is left behind. When I call my children to tell them what they have left behind I am usually told, "Oh, just bring it when you come.", "Keep it for me until I come back the next time", or "Hey, I really need that, would you mind mailing it to me?"

"Oh look! Here's Tegan's tooth," I said to my husband as I picked up a ziplock bag with her name engraved on it. Tegan had a loose tooth and had managed to wiggle it out earlier in the day. "Now, she can't put it under her pillow. I wonder if it will work if I put it under my pillow. The Tooth Fairy is going to be so confused!" I laughed.

"Here's a pair of tennis shoes," Mike said. "And three socks!" He added.

Maybe the mystery of extra socks in the dryer has been solved. Perhaps some people are wearing three socks at a time!

"Hey, Ben left his rubber spider," I said to my husband.

"Oh, it will be here when he comes back." He replied.

"Not if I can help it." I said as I recalled my last encounter with the creepy artificial arachnid. I remembered how Ben had giggled like crazy the first time I had seen one of his monster spiders he had placed in a strategic place for me to find. He loves to see me jump and he is never disappointed since making Grammy jump doesn't take much with or without spiders.

"You just never know when you might need a huge black spider that looks and feels real." I said as I hastily threw it in the box with the shoes to mail to my daughter.

"I hope she doesn't have a heart attack when she opens the box but then I imagine she's pretty used to rubber spiders by now."

I walked on around the house finding more things that had been left behind: A toothbrush, a ponytail band, an angel figurine, a pie pan, a frozen teething ring in the freezer, and last but not least the insides of a turkey fryer.

I was really kind of enjoying myself. It gave me something to do after they left to take my mind off of missing them.

Then my eyes teared up as I noticed the baby outfit beside the sink where it had been left to dry after spots had been scrubbed out of it. The little outfit, now stain free, reminded me of the trip to the emergency room with Rowan due to a gash on her head that was caused from a flower pot pulled over by her curious little fingers.

"Hmmm, things left behind. . .", I pondered to myself. It seems there is one thing that is left behind on every occasion. Memories are always left behind, I reasoned, and what a precious thing good memories are to us. I thought how each item left behind reminded me of the person it belonged to and the story surrounding it. The insides of the turkey fryer that was left behind reminded me of the delicious Thanksgiving meal that we all enjoyed. The empty pie pan reminded me of Katie's delicious pies. The angel figurine reminded me of the white elephant gift exchange game that we play every year. Even the bad memory of Rowan's injury reminded me of how frightened I was at the sound of her cry. It is a bad memory that turned into a good one as it reminded us of how precious little Rowan is to us.

Memories happen even if we aren't aware of it. The stressful and difficult moments often become memories that we look back on later with laughter and joy. They are the stories of the future when one day someone will say, "Remember when ...... ?", and everyone laughs.

Then, of course, there are some memories that need to be left behind. The memories of past hurts, unforgiveness, bitterness, and anger should be left behind forever. These are the things that we should never keep until the next time, mail back, or bring with us to our next visit.

Yes, I stood in the driveway and watched my grown children drive off into the distance and I remembered my own parents once doing the same thing. I never knew then that I would one day be the one waving from the driveway and feeling my heart drive off down the road. That's because there is one more thing besides memories left behind ... and that is love.

"To have a child is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." ~Elizabeth Stone
Written by Pamela Perry Blaine

A Prayer Before Dinner

Today while looking through literature for something to post, i came across this short story which made me laugh! The things that sometimes comes out of our children's mouths!

A Prayer Before Dinner:

Everyone was seated around the table as the food was being served.

When little Logan received his plate, he started eating right away.
"Logan, wait until we say our prayer," his mother reminded him.

"I don't have to," the little boy replied.

"Of course you do," his mother insisted, "we say a prayer before eating at our house."

"That's at our house," Logan explained, "but this is Grandma's house and she knows how to cook."

Mothers Day in Georgia

It was Mothers Day in Georgia in 1970. I had just retired from the Air Force and was in Milledgeville attending Georgia College.

That Mothers Day Sunday, my family and I were at Molesville Baptist Church waiting for the Preacher to begin when I looked around noticing our 12-year-old son was absent. My wife and I looked at each other with questioning eyes, thinking he was probably outside playing with his friends.

Ten or fifteen minutes later the choir was singing and still no son. Thirty minutes later the preacher was well into his sermon and still no son. I knew in my heart of hearts the only thing wrong was his priorities, which as soon as we came face-to-face again, I would direct him into knowing what was important and what was not important.

Since we only lived about a block from the church, all through the sermon I was thinking he had gone home to watch television. I knew when I found him, he would not either be able to sit down for a week or be interested in watching television.

As soon as the preacher said the benediction and without staying to shake hands with fellow worshippers, my wife and I rushed for the door and on our way home. With anger building with every step I took toward the house, I imagined what I would say and what I would do as soon as we found him.

With all that tension and anxiety building, can you imagine our surprise when we walked into the house and found him sitting on the sofa waiting for us with a smile. I was just about to let it all out, when without saying a word he stood, took his mother by the hand, and led her into the kitchen.

There before us was a beautiful table of food spread our twelve-year-old son had prepared for my wife as his Mothers Day gift for his mom with his smile as garnishing for the meal.

Later, we learned he left immediately after Sunday School to rush home to have it prepared for his Mom when she returned after preaching.

Isn't this the way God is sometimes. We look at our circumstances and stand wonder at how bad we think things are. Then, when we see God's outcome, we can only bow our humble heads in amazement at how things turned out for our good and His glory!

Lonely Cabin on the Forty-Mile

During the Alaska gold rush in the late 1800's, I was sent to an old, remote cabin to keep watch on the property. Gold had been discovered nearby, and I was hired to make certain no one jumped the claim.

My pay for staying in the cabin that winter was plenty of free grub and all the whiskey I could drink! I couldn't make it a day without whiskey and now I had all I could drink, for a whole winter.

But as the days passed, I grew lonely. I found myself missing my wife and little daughter. Prior to my leaving for Alaska, they had seen me off. My darling daughter had put a little medicine kit inside the trunk packed for me, and inside the kit was a small Bible. I remembered her last words, "I wouldn't give this little book to anyone in the world but you, Daddy. You read it, okay?"

I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but I wasn't going to read her Bible. So the Bible lay safely tucked away in the trunk in the corner of the cabin.

As loneliness ate away at me, one day an unexpected knock came on the cabin door. There stood a man cold and hungry. I eagerly invited him in. "There's plenty of food and whiskey for both of us!" I said.

His name was Jimmy Miller. The two of us drank ourselves to sleep every night, hooting and hollering as the snow piled high outside.

Two weeks later another knock came at the door. A Mr. Wally Flett entered. When he saw the whiskey, his mouth watered, and I invited him to join us.

Night after night the three of us got roaring drunk, only to numb our pounding heads the next morning with more whiskey.

Winter hung on. Three different times we made trips to Dawson for more whiskey and grub. We drank so much that we began to experience delirium tremens.

One night Jimmy Miller had severe delirium tremens and a fever. In great agony he cried, "Get me a doctor! Don't let me lie here and die!"

But we were 40 miles from Dawson City. It was 40 below zero and the snow was deep. Then I remembered the little medicine kit in the old trunk. When I opened it, out fell the little black book onto the floor my daughter had given me.

"It's that Bible, curse it!" I said, as I walked over to the stove to burn it.

"Don't throw it in!" Wally shouted. "Don't you know we haven't a thing to read in this godforsaken country? The only magazine we have - I've read 20 times!" and he snatched the Bible from my hand.

"If you want to read it, go ahead, but I won't!" I exclaimed.

Wally spotted some handwriting on one of the blank pages, and read it out loud. "To my darling Daddy. With love, Florence."

Suddenly hearing those words -- not knowing she had written them; now I was glad I hadn't burned the Bible . . . but I didn't tell them.

Jimmy began to get better. As he was recuperating, he started to read the Bible out loud. I'd yell, "Shut up!" but Wally was interested. He would say, "What was that you read, Jimmy?" Then Jimmy would read it again.

Wally would say, "I had no idea there were things like that in the Bible. What do you say we keep reading it just to pass the time away? Not to believe it, mind you. Joe was a Pastor once, you know? He says Pastors are fools."

I was outnumbered. We were all bored, so we took turns reading.

What we didn't realize at first was the change coming over the lonely cabin on the Forty-Mile. The whiskey barrel was going down more slowly. Some days, five, six, and even seven chapters were read from the Bible.

One day Wally said, "Have you two noticed a change coming over us? I haven't heard swearing now for three or four days. I wonder if it's the Bible reading that's been doing it?"

January came. Boredom continued. Then came February 14. It was Wally's turn to read scriptures:

Let not your heart be troubled. You believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you." (John 14:2)

Suddenly I couldn't hold it any longer. I began to sob.

"What's the matter with you, Joe?" asked Wally and Jimmy.

"Just keep on reading," I said. "I was just thinking about my little girl. I am not crying because of that Bible," I lied.

There was a moment of silence, and then a confession broke forth from Wally's lips. "You know, for the last five days I've been wanting to pray, and I was scared you fellows would laugh at me, but I'm not scared anymore. I'm going to pray."

In a shaken voice, I spoke, "Well ... since you have committed yourself, I will tell you my heart has been breaking for the last week. I've been hearing my mother pray for me, and she's been dead for years! How about you, Jimmy?"

"If you fellows want to pray, I'll pray with you," answered Jimmy.

The little holy Bible had worked its wonder in each of us.

We three drunken soaks in the lonely cabin on the Forty-Mile got down on our knees. Our prayers rose higher and higher. Suddenly Wally jumped up on his feet and started shouting, "Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Jesus heard me!"

While he was shouting, up jumped Jimmie Miller, and I followed. Then all three of us started jumping up and down, shouting glory and praises to God!

It was two o'clock that morning when we ended our praying and praising. Then we destroyed the whiskey barrel with a hatchet and let the whiskey run in the snow.

That night, Jimmy, Wally and I were born again spiritually by the Spirit of God. The Holy Spirit had been working in our hearts as the scriptures had been read, until it was time for God to birth us into the Kingdom of His Son (Col. 1:13-14).

Months later, God called me back into the ministry as a Pastor again, and Jimmy and Wally were also called of God to serve as Pastors.

By: Joseph Conlee
________________________________________________________________________________
Staff Note: A number of different sources has printed copies of this testimony over the years and gave them out as tracts, it so seems. We no longer have the copy we used to post this to the website, so it is now impossible for us to know from WHAT exact publishing source it came from. A Pastor Burt Evans gave me a copy of the tract around 1982 and I tucked it away for years until we started this website in 1998. There is a possibility that a Dr. Charles S. Price may well be the original author of the tract, and not Joseph Conlee. Nevertheless, the testimony is true, which is what matters the most, and God is still using it many years later. (- Norm Rasmussen; Founder, Precious Testimonies)

What God Wont Ask

God won't ask what kind of car you drove.
He will ask how many people you took to church who didn't have a car.

God won't ask the square footage of your home.
He will ask how many people you helped who didn't have a home.

God won't ask how many fancy clothes you had in your closet.
He will ask how many of those clothes you gave away to Salvation Army.

God won't ask what social class you were in.
He will ask what kind of "class" you displayed.

God won't ask how many material possessions you had.
He will ask whether those material possessions dictated your life.

God won't ask what your highest salary was.
He will ask if you trampled over any people to obtain that salary.

God won't ask how much overtime you worked.
He will ask did you work overtime for your family.

God won't ask how many promotions you received.
He will ask what you did to promote others.

God won't ask what your job title was.
He will ask did you perform your job to the best of your ability.

God won't ask how many promotions you took to chase the dollar bill.
He will ask how many promotions you refused to advance your family's quality of life.

God won't ask how many times you didn't run around around on your spouse.
He will ask how many times you did.

God won't ask how many degrees you have.
He will ask how many people you thanked for getting those degrees.

God won't ask what your parents did to help you.
He will ask what you did to help your parents.

God won't ask what you did to help yourself.
He will ask what you did to help others.

God won't ask how many friends you had.
He will ask how many people you were a friend to.

God won't ask what you did to protect your rights.
He will ask what you did to protect the rights of others.

God won't ask what neighborhood you lived in.
He will ask what other neighborhoods you visited.

God won't ask how many times you told the truth.
He will ask how many times you told a lie.

God won't ask about the color of your skin.
He will ask about the color of your heart.

God won't ask how many times your deeds matched your words.
He will ask how many times they didn't.

God ordinarily will not show you His will in order for you to consider it.
He will show you His will when He knows you are willing to do it.

Author Unknown

Making Rainbows

For as long as I can remember, my aunt had stained glass hanging in her window. She had pieces from all over the world, each one hand crafted by a stained glass artist. She had small ones and larger ones, all created by various artists. They were beautiful to look at and when the sun hit them there brillance shone through.

She loved them all, but there was one piece that hung in her kitchen window and she often referred to it as her "motivational stained glass". She told me that she hung this particular piece in her kitchen window where she would see it every day.

The stained glass piece, which she was referring to, was a rainbow. And on the rainbow someone had written the saying:
"Remember, to make rainbows you need sun and rain."

The motivational stained glass piece was one of the smaller pieces of her wonderful collection, and was not certainly not the most beautiful piece. I asked her why she kept it there. She said it gave her motivation on days when life presented challenges. It reminded her that we need to have some bad times to appreciate the good times. And, on the days when life was good, it always reminded her that life doesn't get any better than this. She said that in life we sometimes need small reminders to stay focused on the more important things in life. And, this piece of stain glass was her reminder that even when things were difficult the rainbow was there and would come out to shine.

I was at our local farmers market and found a stained glass rainbow similar to the one my aunt had hanging in her window. The one I bought did not have the saying on it, but every time I look at it I can remember my aunts words and the saying. . .
"To make rainbows you need sun and rain".

By Catherine Pulsifer, © 2007


When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.”  Genesis 9:16

The Pickle Jar

The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.

As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They ended with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.

When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck. Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully. "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son.

You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back." Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly.

"These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me." We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again."

He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.

When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar.

To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me. "When you finish college, Son," he told me, his eyes glistening, "You'll never have to eat beans again...unless you want to."

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. "She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room.

"Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins.

With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.

Author Unknown

Through wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established; and by knowledge the rooms shall be filled with all precious and pleasant riches. Proverbs 24: 3-4

Are you Ugly?

Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and, shall we say, love.

The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly. To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been, there was a hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side. His left foot appeared to have been badly broken at one time and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner.

Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby, striped type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, and even his shoulders. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. "That's one UGLY cat!!!"

All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction.

If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around your feet in forgiveness.

Whenever he spied children, he would come running, meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.

One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbor's dogs. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life was almost at an end.

As I picked him up and tried to carry him home, I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. It must be hurting him terribly, I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear. Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying, was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring.

Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion. At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.

Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly.

Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful. He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply -- to give my total to those I cared for.

Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, and beautiful -- except for me. I will always try to be Ugly.

- AUTHOR UNKNOWN