SFGTD

This is God. Today I will be handling All of your problems for you. I do Not need your help. So, have a nice day. I love you.

P.S. And, remember…

If life happens to deliver a situation to you that you cannot handle, do Not attempt to resolve it yourself! Kindly put it in the SFGTD (something for God to do) box. I will get to it in MY TIME. All situations will be resolved, but in My time, not yours.

Once the matter is placed into the box, do not hold onto it by worrying about it. Instead, focus on all the wonderful things that are present in your life now.

Should you decide to send this to a friend; Thank you. You may have touched their life in ways you will never know!

Now, you have a nice day.

The World Is Mine – Oh God, Forgive Me When I Whine

Today, upon a bus, I saw a girl with golden hair.
I envied her, she seemed so gay, and wished I was as fair.
When suddenly she rose to leave, I saw her hobbled down the aisle.
She had one leg and wore a crutch.
And as she passed… a smile.

Oh God, forgive me when I whine.
I have 2 legs, the world is mine

I stopped to buy some candy. The lad who sold it had such charm.
I talked with him, he seemed so glad.
If I were late, it’d do no harm.
And as I left, he said to me, “I thank you, you’ve been so kind.
It’s nice to talk with folks like you. You see,” he said, “I’m blind.”

Oh God, forgive me when I whine.
I have 2 eyes, the world is mine.

Later while walking down the street,
I saw a child with eyes of blue.
He stood and watched the others play.
He did not know what to do.
I stopped a moment and then I said,
“Why don’t you join the others, dear?”
He looked ahead without a word. And then I knew,
he couldn’t hear.

Oh God, forgive me when I whine.
I have 2 ears, the world is mine.
With feet to take me where I’d go.
With eyes to see the sunset’s glow.
With ears to hear what I’d know.

Oh God, forgive me when I whine.
I’ve been blessed indeed, the world is mine..

RED MARBLES

I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes.   I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas.  I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas.   I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes.   Pondering the peas, I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.

 “Hello Barry, how are you today?” “H’lo, Mr. Miller.  Fine, thank ya.   Jus’ admirin’ them peas.  They sure look good.” “They are good, Barry.   How’s your Ma?” “Fine. Gittin’ stronger alla’ time.” “Good.   Anything I can help you with?” “No, Sir. Jus’ admirin’ them peas.” “Would you like to take some home?” asked Mr. Miller. “No, Sir. Got nuthin’ to pay for ‘em with.” “Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?” “All I got’s my prize marble here.” “Is that right?   Let me see it” said Miller. Here ’tis.   She’s a dandy.”“I can see that.   Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red.  Do you have a red one like this at home?” the store owner asked. “Not zackley but almost.” “Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble” .   Mr. Miller told the boy. “Sure will.   Thanks Mr. Miller.”

Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me.   With a smile she said, “There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances.   Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever.   When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn’t like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store.” I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man.

A short time later I moved to Colorado, but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles. Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one.  Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died.  They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them.

Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could Ahead of us in line were three young men.   One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts…all very professional looking.  They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband’s casket.  Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket.  Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller.  I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband’s  bartering for marbles.  With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket. “Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about.  They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim “traded” them.   Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size….they came to pay their debt.” “We’ve never had a great deal of the wealth of this world,”  she confided, “but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho .” With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband.   Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.  

The Moral :   We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds.  Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.

Merry Christmas

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“Friends are God’s way of taking care of us.”

                   
       This was written by a Metro Denver Hospice Physician:        I was driving home from a meeting this evening about 5, stuck in
       traffic on Colorado Blvd., and the car started to choke and splutter
       and die – I barely managed to coast, cursing, into a gas station,
       glad only that I would not be blocking traffic and would have a
       somewhat warm spot to wait for the tow truck. It wouldn’t even turn
       over. Before I could make the call, I saw a woman walking out of the
       “quickie mart” building, and it looked like she slipped on some ice
       and fell into a Gas pump, SO I got out to see if she was okay.

       When I got there, it looked more like she had been overcome by sobs
       than that she had fallen; she was a young woman who looked really
       haggard with dark circles under her eyes. She dropped something as I
       helped her up, and I picked it up to give it to her. It was a
       nickel.    At that moment, everything came into focus for
       me: the crying woman, the ancient Suburban crammed full of stuff
       with 3 kids in the back (1 in a car seat), and the gas pump reading
       $4.95.

       I asked her if she was okay and if she needed help, and she just
       kept saying “don’t want my kids to see me crying,” so we stood on
       the other side of the pump from her car. She said she was driving to
       California and that things were very hard for her right now. So I
       asked, “And you were praying?” That made her back away from me a
       little, but I assured her I was not a crazy person and said, “He
       heard you, and He sent me.”

       I took out my card and swiped it through the card reader on the pump
       so she could fill up her car completely, and while it was fuelling,
       walked to the next door McDonald’s and bought 2 big bags of food,
       some gift certificates for more, and a big cup of coffee. She gave
       the food to the kids in the car, who attacked it like wolves, and we
       stood by the pump eating fries and talking a little.

       She told me her name, and that she lived in Kansas City Her
       boyfriend left 2 months ago and she had not been able to make ends
       meet. She knew she wouldn’t have money to pay rent Jan 1, and
       finally in desperation had finally called her parents, with whom she
       had not spoken in about 5 years. They lived in California and said
       she could come live with them and try to get on her feet there.

       So she packed up everything she owned in the car She told the kids
       they were going to California for Christmas, but not that they were
       going to live there.

       I gave her my gloves, a little hug and said a quick prayer with her
       for safety on the road. As I was walking over to my car, she said,
       “So, are you like an angel or something?”

       This definitely made me cry. I said, “Sweetie, at this time of year
       angels are really busy, so sometimes God uses
       regular people.”

       It was so incredible to be a part of someone else’s miracle. And of
       course, you guessed it, when I got in my car it started right away
       and got me home with no problem. I’ll put it in the shop tomorrow to
       check, but I suspect the mechanic won’t find anything wrong.

        Sometimes the angels fly close enough to you that you can hear the
       flutter of their wings.

        Psalms 55:22 “Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain
       thee. He shall never suffer the righteous to be moved.”

It’s Great!

It’s great to be Six “O” today!” – The Burner  

Beautiful story….

Beautiful story…. makes you understand that things happen for a reason The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn , arrived in early October excited about their opportunities When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed
much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service
on Christmas Eve.
T hey worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc, and on December 18
were ahead of schedule and just about finished.  On December 19 a terrible tempest – a driving
rainstorm hit the area and lasted for two days. On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high.
The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone
the Christmas Eve service, headed home. On the way he noticed that a local business was
having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful,
handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross
embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front
wall. He bought it and headed back to the church. By this time it had started to snow.

An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus.. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later. She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area. T hen he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet.. “Pastor,” she asked, “where did you get that tablecloth?” The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria  The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor told how he had just gotten the Tablecloth. The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria . When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave.  Her husband was going to follow her the next week. He was captured, sent to prison and never saw her husband or her home again.

The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church.
The pastor insisted on driving her home, that was the least he could do.. She lived on the other
side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.

What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return. One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood continued to sit in one of the pew s and stare, and the pastor wondered why he wasn’t leaving. The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike.

He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison.. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years in between. T he pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier.

He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman’s apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine. True Story – submitted by Pastor Rob Reid  

Heaven and Hell

Holy man was having a conversation with the Lord one day and said, “Lord, I would like to know what Heaven and Hell are like.”The Lord led the holy man to two doors.He opened one of the doors and the holy man looked in. In the middle of the room was a large round table. In the middle of the table was a large pot of stew, which smelled delicious and made the holy man’s mouth water. The people sitting around the table were thin and sickly. They appeared to be famished. They were holding spoons with very long handles that were strapped to their arms and each found it possible to reach into the pot of stew and take a spoonful. But because the handle was longer than their arms, they could not get the spoons back into their mouths. The holy man shuddered at the sight of their misery and suffering. The Lord said, “You have seen Hell.” They went to the next room and opened the door. It was exactly the same as the first one. There was the large round table with the large pot of stew which made the holy man’s mouth water. The people were equipped with the same long-handled spoons, but here the people were well nourished and plump, laughing and talking. The holy man said, “I don’t understand.” It is simple,” said the Lord. “It requires but one skill. You see they have learned to feed each other, while the greedy think only of themselves.” Remember that I will always share my spoon with you.

.

Take My Son

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art. When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son. 

About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, “Sir, you don’t know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your love for art.” The young man held out this package. “I know this isn’t much. I’m not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this.”

The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. “Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It’s a gift.”The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.

The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection. On the platform sat the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. “We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?” There was silence.Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, “We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one.” But the auctioneer persisted.. “Will somebody bid for this painting. Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?” Another voice angrily. “We didn’t come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Goghs, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!”But still the auctioneer continued. “The son! The son! Who’ll take the son?”

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. “I’ll give $10 for the painting.” Being a poor man, it was all he could afford.“We have $10, who will bid $20?” “Give it to him for $10. Let’s see the masters.” “$10 is the bid, won’t someone bid $20?” The crowd was becoming angry.. They didn’t want the picture of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections. The auctioneer pounded the gavel. “Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!” A man sitting on the second row shouted, “Now let’s get on with the collection!” The auctioneer laid down his gavel. “I’m sorry, the auction is over.” “What about the paintings?” “I am sorry.

 When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings. The man who took the son gets everything!”God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is: “The son, the son, who’ll take the son?” Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything.

WHEN YOUR HUT’S ON FIRE

The only survivor of a shipwreck was washed up on a small, uninhabited island. He prayed feverishly for God to rescue him. Everyday he scanned the horizon for help, but none seemed forthcoming. Exhausted, he eventually managed to build a little hut out of driftwood to protect him from the elements, and to store his few possessions.One day, after scavenging for food, he arrived home to find his little hut in flames, with smoke rolling up to the sky. He felt the worst had happened, and everything was lost. He was stunned with disbelief, grief, and anger He cried out, ‘God! How could you do this to me?’Early the next day, he was awakened by the sound of a ship approaching the island! It had come to rescue him! “How did you know I was here?” asked the weary man of his rescuers. “We saw your smoke signal,” they replied.

The Moral of This Story:
It’s easy to get discouraged when things are going bad, but we shouldn’t lose heart, because God is at work in our lives…. even in the midst of our pain and suffering. Remember that the next time your little hut seems to be burning to the ground. It just may be a smoke signal that summons the Grace of God.