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MAMA'S ADVICE

by Maxine

Last Friday I came home from work and as I entered my home, I realized that someone had been in the house. As I walked through the house assessing the damage, I found polished furniture, made and changed beds, vacuum and mopped floors, clean bathrooms, laundered and folded clothes, a sparkling kitchen - in general I had a very clean house. I assure you that this is not how I had left my house that morning.

I immediately knew that my daughter had visited and cleaned my house for me. Of course, I was elated but I also felt bad because I knew what a sacrifice it was for her to do this, with three children, a business and a house of her own to manage.

As I was looking at all the deeds she had done, I suddenly heard my mama's voice in my ear screaming at me, "Will you ever learn this lesson?" I realized then that I was going around unconsciously moving things and putting them in their 'proper order.' The lesson that my mental ear was hearing was some advice my mama gave me when I got married.

"If your husband helps you in the house doing anything, never go behind him and change it. When I was first married, your daddy would help me by making the beds, washing dishes or whatever. I never liked the way he did it, so I always went behind him and did it my way. Before long, he stopped helping me and never offered to help me with anything else. So, even if it doesn't meet your standards or is not done your way, accept it as a gift or he will stop giving."

Boy, did that lesson ring true today and so many other times in my life. Why is that we cannot accept help without wanting to customize it to our way of thinking? As long as the job gets done well, does it really matter how it gets done? I reflected back, and realized that I had a tendency to always change or rearrange things to my way of doing or thinking. Could it be that this had kept me from growth in my life? Could it be that I had failed to see a better way, just because it was not my way? Could I have missed blessings because of my narrow-minded view? Were there others in my life that wanted to help but were afraid their efforts would not meet my standards? Had I made others feel inferior and unimportant because I had to change them to my liking?

Well, I sat down in my clean house, keeping everything just as my daughter had so painstakingly left it, and thanked God for children that loved me and for His grace in giving me one more chance to pass the test. I hope I have learned to follow Mama's advice this time!

Maxine Wright

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DON'T PUT YOUR MUCK IN OUR DUSTBIN

by Ronnie Bray

Other people's dustbins were reliable sources of treasure trove. Our dustbin was always full of ashes from the fires, and other useless rubbish. Our kitchen waste, such as vegetable peelings, was put on the fire last thing at night to bank it up and keep the house warm for another hour or so.

When night drew on and most in the house had already shuffled their way to their beds, my stepfather, who I called Dad, thought everyone else should be in bed. This was unusual because he had no status in the house and took no part in the general proceedings. However, whenever a couple of the more interesting lodgers and myself would sit roasting our legs up the chimney, Dad would appear from the kitchen, tacitly bearing the day's load of soggy vegetable detritus and plonk it on top of the cheery blaze. The fiery licking fingers succumbed with a long, hissing sigh, as a drowning man might resign himself to his inevitable end.

No one demurred or looked at Dad, and none displayed the slightest sign of grievance, appearing to have fallen each into an incommunicable trance. There was a fatalism, an overwhelming sense of the inevitability that good times were not under our control, but at the whim of a higher, unsympathetic power. And so, thus surrendered, we fell silently to bed.

What wouldn't burn went into the bin that we kept at the bottom of the steps out in the back yard. The dustbin men, who came weekly to empty them into their stinking fly- infested wagon, were men of muscle and grumble. When everyone used tea leaves in the time before tea bags and only the slovenly poured them down the sink, a leaking bin caused the slimy dregs to dribble down the back of the binman's neck as he hoisted the galvanized steel tubs onto his shoulder to carry them to the wagon. That's when they grumbled. It wasn't 'cool' to be a dustman.

Nobody ever scrounged from our dustbin. If they did, they never came again for it contained nothing that was not thoroughly useless. Books were never put into the bin. They could be read and re-read. Shoes that could not be revived by a visit to the Cimmerian regions of the cobbler's shop were consigned to the dustbin, but this was a rare thing. Cobblers could work wonders, although it took time.

It was not a throw-away time. The shortages that war brings and that follow in its wake had spawned a philosophy of make-do-and-mend. The lesson had been learned, especially by the poor, and it was an unusual dustbin that contained anything of value. Jumble sales and rummage sales - I never learned the difference - were places where poor people gave up their cast-offs, and paid hard-earned money for other people's. The irony of that was never appreciated.

Yet, the dustbins of some people contained things that I coveted. Most of them were just a little broken, or only slightly worn. I attribute my magpie-like disposition to collect things to my failure to make satisfactory human relationships. It seems that those who can not collect friends, collect things. I can understand that, because if you have things they act as compensation for lack of friends or familial affection. I am just beginning to be able to discard 'treasures' that I have had for many years.

A rummage through the right dustbin could yield unexpected, but hoped-for, treasure. One glittering prize were ties that had belonged to a gentleman, bearing the tell-tale label of Ernest Clough, Huddersfield's most highly regarded bespoke tailor. These fell into my hands from the bins behind the posh flats in Trinity Street, just below the church where I was christened. They were a little threadbare, where hundreds, perhaps thousands, of knots had been pulled a little too tight a little too often, but who would notice? I have worn ties ever since, although they have never been from Ernest Clough.

Once, passing by Ernest Clough's shop in Westgate, I noticed a handsome bow tie. I had heard people say, "If you have to ask the price, you can't afford it." The pleasing article bore no price tag. I went in and asked how much it was. "They" were quite right. I couldn't afford it!

Broken toys were toys all the same, and my small stock of motor cars was no worse for having some with a wheel or two short, or some part snapped of by impatient tender hands. I was never ungrateful. A motor bike with a broken wheel and a headless rider, or a three-legged cavalry charger, went at incredible speeds when their deficiencies were overlooked, and the imagination of a child was applied.

To be grateful for that which others find of no use is a gift. To have a soul that is satisfied by those who are less than perfect is a blessing. To be able to accept people who have limitations, with full and thankful hearts, heads off the awful bitterness of disappointment felt by those who are long on criticism and short on love.

I have found few who accept the rubbish I am shown to be when placed alongside any standard of perfection. Yet, I know that there is One who does not regard me as worthless, fit only to be discarded for my imperfections. I know there is One who loves me with all my shortcomings and though I hide myself in the shadows and am stained by sin and reeking with the stench of the world, the Perfect One lifts me from my dark corner and takes me into the full light of His loving bosom.

Just as I loved the broken toys that I scavenged and prized though they were contaminated with the waste of life in the darkness of foul dustbin dungeons, so the Holy One finds me, makes me His own, and counts me chief among His treasures.

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ETERNALLY GRATEFUL

by Colleen

by Colleen

As a young girl I remember a very special doctor named Dr. William Robert Vincent. I had been to several doctors as a child, but I have a special place in my heart for Dr. Vincent. In my eyes I see Dr. Vincent as my hero. He was a Pediatric Cardiologist at UCLA Hospital in Los Angeles back in 1971 who saved my life. I was an eight years old little girl at the time with a severe heart problem and I needed heart surgery. My Mom was a single mother raising three girls and she could not afford to pay for the surgery herself. Dr. Vincent told my Mom that without the surgery there was a real good chance I would not live to be thirteen years old. After contacting several organizations Dr. Vincent was able to help get the surgery funded through United Way, a Crippled Children's Organization.

I recall Dr. Vincent being a handsome man and a very gentle and caring person. He made sure that I got the medical care that I needed and he made me feel important. I remember being in the hospital for an Angiogram test, and during the procedure I was crying hysterically, so the medical staff called in Dr. Vincent to calm me down, and he was able to comfort me when no one else could. Then the time came for me to have heart surgery; there was only a fifty-percent chance that I would make it through the surgery because it was a new procedure and experimental. At the time I was only the second or third person to have this procedure done, they reconstructed the main artery by using an artery from my leg.

I was absolutely terrified when the nurse showed me the intensive care room where I would be the next day after the surgery. Once again Dr. Vincent took the time to reassure me that everything would be all right. I had a lot of confidence and trust in Dr. Vincent; he was the most caring man I have ever known. He came to see me after the surgery, which was extremely painful but very successful, and he was so kind and brought me a stuffed animal. I remember I was so thrilled and surprised to get this cute stuffed mouse from Dr. Vincent, I gave him a hug. I guess Dr. Vincent must have known I was feeling very lonely and scared. That stuffed animal really meant a lot to me. It brightened my day.

You see, I had no family or friends visit me while I was in the hospital, except for my Mom. She stayed with me the whole time and she slept in the hospital waiting room for eight days. I remember feeling very disappointed that no one came to visit me. I do know one thing - I had a wonderful doctor who took the time to help a scared little girl who felt all alone. This was twenty eight years ago, and I have a healthy heart thanks to Dr. Vincent and the good Lord. So wherever you are Dr. Vincent, I want to thank you for not only saving my life, but you helped me live a normal productive life, and for showing me that you truly cared. You are a gifted Doctor who has made a big difference in my life, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Colleen Duval

About this writer:

Colleen is an Accounting Clerk for a private Liberal Arts College in Southern California. She works in the Student Accounts office. She is also a happily married mother of two boys, a step-son Ryan who is fourteen years old, and an adopted son Eric who is two years old. In her spare time, Colleen loves to write poetry. She has several poems published in various anthologies by the International Library of Poetry. Colleen has received two awards for her poem "To My Sweet Angel To Come" from Cader Publishing Iliad Press Awards.

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CUTE THINGS BY KIDS

by Colleen

Colleen occasionally writes to tell us some of the things her little son Eric says. I thought you might enjoy some of them:

Last night before I put Eric to bed he asked me for some "Bapple Juice" (translated "Apple Juice"). He finished his juice and as I was putting him into bed I said: "let's say our prayer." Eric begins his prayer... "Thank you for Daddy, Mommy, Ryan, Bapple Juice, and Bunny. Amen.

One morning as we sat eating our breakfast, my two year old adopted son Eric was admiring my new angel figurine on our kitchen table and he asked me: "What's that Mommy?" I told him it was an angel. His reply was..."No No...that's Mommy."

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For the past few weeks we have been sharing stories from the "Angels on Earth" Web site archives. Today we are sharing a story that is scheduled for the "Angels On Earth" Web site at http://www.eaglecreek.org/angel however this particular story has not been published there as yet. This story comes to us from Maggie

THE DREAM AND THE REALITY

by Maggie

One night when I went to bed and turned out my light I felt what seemed like a hand on my head. It lasted quite a long time, time enough for me to wonder what was happening and then to eventually turn my light back on to see if something was on my pillow. There wasn't, but whatever it was felt very warm and comforting, so I didn't worry about it. I thought perhaps that it was my deceased mother come to let me know that she was thinking of me. I don't know why I thought that, as she passed over some 18 years ago, and I hadn't ever had any sign from her before.

Two weeks later I had the most terrible nightmare.

My 32-year-old son James was walking with his dad, when some louts came up and bashed him across the back of the legs with a steel bar. He fell to his knees, but after a few minutes, his father helped him up and he managed to walk again. About three days later he was admitted to hospital, where he died of his injuries. The next thing I was in a big hall and up on a stage. All James' friends were there, his ex-wife, his three little girls and his mother-in-law. The girls were running around through all the people. I was telling Mil (my husband) that I didn't know why I wasn't crying. Then someone made a speech about James and I fell to my knees, sobbing with the most incredible grief.

I woke up crying and stayed awake the rest of the night, crying and shaken. The next day I told some of my friends about the dream and it stayed with me for days. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the grief all over again.

Three weeks after my dream, James was driving home from interstate after taking his two older girls, Jessica and Samantha, home to their mother after they had spent a couple of weeks holiday with us. He was not here when I had my dream, as when he took the girl's home he stayed up in Brisbane for about a month with them and his friends. He rang me at 3:15 pm one Tuesday afternoon (30th June 1998) to tell me he was on his way home. I asked him to please drive carefully as I had had this bad dream and he promised me he would ring me again at each major town, to let me know he was OK.

At 10:30 pm the police came to our front door and told me that James had been involved in a very bad accident and that he was barely alive. He died 4 or 5 hours later. He had some extremely horrific injuries, he'd lost control on what is called "black ice" and he crashed into a power pole with tremendous force. The weather was extremely bad; the middle of winter, with rain and gale force winds blowing. The police told us that he had head and internal injuries. What really shocked me when we got the coroner's report, we found that both his legs were severely smashed and broken. At James' funeral everything was exactly as I dreamed. The same people were there. And his mother-in- law had to take Nikki, (who had just celebrated her second birthday with her dad) outside because she started running around during the service!

I have told many people about this dream and it has been suggested to me that the dream came to prepare me for the actual event, to soften the blow and to open up my emotions. I feel as if the spirit world knew he was joining them and sent the dream to prepare me. I have since found out that it has also been known for other parents to have similar experiences.

After his death, James spoke with me, but that is another story.

Maggie

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