Woman’s Price

I wish I could say something to you women to make you realize your worth and the high price you ought to put on yourself. Do you know that you are the one thing in the world that men want most of all? He may give his time, money and labor for other things; but for you he will give his soul.

You are just that expensive—higher priced than rubies and diamonds, a deeper necessity than bread, a greater luxury than yachting and limousines, more irresistible than whisky or drugs; in fine, the most valuable commodity in the markets of the world. Why cheapen yourself?

Why give away a hand clasp want only when it might serve a man to success? Why squander your kiss when it may be the price of a man’s soul, or unleash his feet from a bad habit and win him to nobility?

You depreciate yourself, you say that you amount to nothing, and that it makes no difference what you do.

Every woman is a battery of electric purpose, or might be. Every woman is let down from heaven for some man. Every woman is a life preserver that may save some man from going under in a sea of despondency.

Whatever else you may hear of the “Mission of Woman”, and of what she might do in the field of politics, business, or art, the biggest business after all for women, the most inalienable of her privileges is to make men be real men and to make children be true and upright sons of God.

Hold up the price, make him pay. Let him realize that the road to your love, the way to your smiles and kisses is the highway to greatness.

Do you know what you were put in the world for? It was to make him great.

Make him pay, not money, not flattery nor favors, these are cheap counterfeits, they mean nothing or worse. But make him pay in truth and honor, and strength, and loyalty and fineness. He will pay the price if you stand out for it. Be firm. Drive a hard bargain. You have nothing but one thing to see, and that is yourself, make him pay himself.

Dr. Frank Crane

Waiting Girl’s Prayer

Heavenly Father, oh, up above,
Please protect the boy I love.
No matter when or where he’s found,
Keep him always safe and sound.
Help him to know and help him to see
That I love him and he loves me.
Then, Dear Lord, help me to be
The kind of girl he wants me to be.
I once had a heart that was young and gay,
But now it’s blue since he’s away.
You picked him out from all the rest,
And with your help he’ll do his best.
So, take care of him and bring him home to me,
Dear Heavenly Father, I pray to thee.

Nobody’s Business

It’s nobody’s business what I drink!
I care not what the neighbors think,
Or how many laws they choose to pass!
I’ll tell the world I’ll have my glass!
Here’s one man’s freedom that cannot be curbed,
My right to drink is undisturbed.

So he drank in spite of law or man,
Then got into his old tin can;
Stepped on the gas and let it go,
Down the highway to and fro.
He took the curves at fifty miles
With bleary eyes and drunken smile.

Not long till a can he tried to pass;
There was a crash, a scream and breaking glass.
The other car was upside down,
About two miles from the nearest town.

The man was clean but his wife was caught,
And she needed the help of that drunken sot,
Who sat in a maudlin, drunken daze,
And heard the scream and saw the blaze,
But was too far gone to save a life,
By lifting the car from off the wife.

The car was burned, and the mother died,
While a husband wept and baby cried,
And a drunk sat by—and still some think
It’s nobody’s business what they drink!

Don’t Blame the Children!

We read in the paper and hear on the air
Of killing and stealing and crime everywhere.
We sigh and say as we notice the trend
“This young generation, where will it end?”
But can we be sure that it’s their fault alone
That maybe a part of it isn’t our own?
Are we less guilty who place in their way
Too many things that can lead them astray?
Too much money to spend—too much idle time;
Too many movies of passion and crime;
Too many books not fit to be read;
To much evil in what they hear said;
Too many children encouraged to roam
By too many parents who just won’t stay home.

Kids don’t make the movies, they don’t write the books
That paint the gay pictures of gangsters and crooks;
They don’t make the liquor, they don’t run the bars,
They don’t make the laws and they don’t buy the cars.
They don’t peddle drugs that addle the brain,
That’s all done by older folks greedy for gain.
Delinquent teenagers; oh, how we condemn!
The sins of the nation and blame it on them.
By the laws of the blameless the Savior made known
Who is their among us to cast the first stone?
For in so many cases, it’s sad, but it’s true,
The title, “DELINQUENT” fits older folks, too.

Father’s Prayer, A (build me a son)

Build me a son O’ Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak; and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid; One who will be proud and unbending in defeat, but humble and gentle in victory.

Build me a son whose wishes will not replace his actions, a son who will know Thee, and that to know himself is the foundation stone to knowledge. Send him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort, but stress and spur of difficulties and challenge; here let him learn to stand in the storm, here let him learn compassion for those who fail.

Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goal will be high; a son who will master himself before he seeks to master others:
One who will learn to laugh, yet never forget how to weep; one who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past, and after all these things. are his; this I pray, enough sense of humor that he may be serious, yet never take himself too seriously. Give him humility so that he may always remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom, the meekness of true strength; then I, his father will dare to whisper, “I have not lived in Vain.”

Refugee Camp Birthday

By Renie Burghardt

My eleventh birthday was just a week away when we arrived in the refugee camp on that bleak and cold November day in 1947. My grandparents, who were raising me, and I had successfully fled our Soviet-occupied, communist country, Hungary, with only the clothes we were wearing. The refugee camp, called a Displaced Persons Camp, was in Spittal, Austria.

To frightened, cold and hungry people like us, the refugee camp was a blessing. We were given our own little cardboard-enclosed space in a barrack, fed hot cabbage-and-potato soup, and given warm clothes. We had much to be grateful for. But as for my upcoming birthday, I didn’t even want to think about it. After all, we had left our country devoid of possessions or money. And even if Apa (my grandfather) had managed to flee with a few pengos (Hungarian small currency) in his pocket, it wouldn’t have done us any good in Austria. So I had decided to forget about birthday presents from then on.

My grandmother, who was the only mother I had known, had taken over my care when I was only a few weeks old, because her only child, my mother, had died suddenly. Before the war intensified, my birthdays had been grand celebrations with many cousins in attendance, and lots of gifts of toys, books and clothes. The cake had always been a dobosh torte, which Anya (my grandmother) prepared herself.

My eighth birthday had been the last time I received a bought gift. Times were already hard, money was scarce and survival the utmost goal. But my grandparents had managed to hock something so they could buy me a book. It was a wonderful book, too, full of humor and adventure, and I loved it. In fact, Cilike’s Adventures had transported me many times from the harshness of the real world to a world of laughter and fun. After that, birthday presents, thanks to Anya’s deft fingers, were usually crocheted or knitted items, but there was always a present. However, in the refugee camp, I was resigned to the inevitable.

On November 25, 1947, when I woke in our cardboard cubicle, I laid there on my little cot beneath the horsehair blanket and thought about being eleven now. Why, I was practically a grown-up, I told myself, and I would act accordingly when Anya and Apa awoke. I didn’t want them to feel bad because they couldn’t give me a present. So I dressed quickly and tiptoed out as quietly as possible. Outside, I ran across the frosty dirt road to the barrack marked Women’s Bathroom and Shower, washed, combed my hair and took my time, even though it was chilly in there, before returning to our cubicle. But finally, return I did.

“Good morning, Sweetheart. Happy birthday,” Apa greeted as soon as I walked in.

“Thank you. But I’d just as soon forget about birthdays from now on,” I replied, squirming in his generous hug.

“You are too young to forget about birthdays,” Anya said, taking me in her arms. “Besides, who would I give this present to if birthdays are to be forgotten?”

“Present?” I looked at her dumbfounded, as she reached into her pocket and pulled something out.

“Happy birthday, Honey. It’s not much of a present, but I thought you might enjoy having Cilike back on your eleventh birthday,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

“My old Cilike’s Adventures book! But I thought it was left behind with all our other things,” I said, hugging the book to my chest, tears of joy welling up in my own eyes.

“Well, it almost was. But when we had to leave so quickly in the middle of the night, I grabbed it, along with my prayer book, and stuck it in my pocket. I knew how much you loved that book, and I couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Happy birthday, again, Honey. I’m sorry it’s not a new book, but I hope you like having it back,” Anya said.

“Oh, thank you, Anya. Having Cilike back means so much to me. So very much,” I said, hugging her again, tears streaming down my cheeks. “It’s the best birthday present I ever received!” And it truly was, because I realized that day that God had blessed me with a wonderful grandmother/mother, whose love would always see me through.

A Candymaker’s Witness

A candymaker in Indiana wanted to make a candy that would be a witness, so he made the Christmas Candy Cane. He began with a stick of pure white, hard candy … white to symbolize the Virgin Birth and the sinless nature of Jesus; and hard to symbolize the Solid Rock, the foundation of the Church and firmness of the promises of God.
Read more

The Lord’s Trees

Far away on a hillside grew a forest of trees– little and big, old
and young, tall and small. The trees were very happy with life just
as it was on the hillside. They loved the warm sunlight of summer,
spring’s cool silvery rains, the gorgeous reds and golds of autumn
and winter’s blanket of glistening snow. But sometimes, too, they
spoke of the future, of the things they would like to do and be when
they grew up. In this forest there was a mother tree and her 3
children. Read more

Christmas Is Here

By Mary Emma Allen

Christmas is here,
Oh, Christmas is here;
Santa is coming
With his reindeer. Read more

Easter Items

Jesus Last Days – Read the account in the your Bible with your friends or family, then answer these questions.
This is a nice family activity.
The Jelly Bean Prayer (PDF) This is nice to print out and give along with a small bag of Jelly beans

Easter craft ideas to be done at your home or the classroom.

Aunt Maggie’s Easter Afghan
Bunny Fridgie plus bonus Heart Fridgie!
Happy Easter
Easter Chick
Easter Bunny cross stitch
Happy Easter – cross stitch
Easter Bunny Wall Hanging
Easter History – The history of Easter and the meaning behind some Easter traditions.
Easter Message

Easter activities especially for kids.

Different Ways to Dye Eggs
How to Boil Eggs
Easter Game
Spoon Walk
Math Egg Hunt
Coloring Page 1
Coloring Page 2

Poems and songs about Easter.

Easter

The Easter Bunny

Easter Day

Easter Morn

Easter Parade

Recipes
Here are some tasty Easter-themed recipes to try Easter Cupcakes
Easter Eggs
Easter Ham

Stories and Legends
Stories about Easter and Christ as well as the meaning behind some of the Easter Symbols.

The Easter Tree
The Easter Hare – A Legend
Easter Lily Stories and Legends
The Story Of The Easter Bunny, A Stranger
The Magic Stone

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