Two Brothers
In a certain suburban neighborhood, there were two brothers, 8 and 10 years
old, who were exceedingly mischievious. Whenever something went wrong in the
neighborhood, it turned out they had a hand in it. Their parents were at
their wits’ end trying to control them. Hearing about a minister nearby who
worked with delinquent boys, the mother suggested to the father that they ask
the minister to talk with the boys. The father agreed.
The mother went to the minister and made her request. He agreed, but said he
wanted to see the younger boy first and alone. So the mother sent him to the
minister. The minister sat the boy down on the other side of his huge,
impressive desk. For about five minutes they just sat and stared at each
other.
Finally, the minister pointed his forefinger at the boy and asked, “Where is
God?”
The boy looked under the desk, in the corners of the room, all around, but
said nothing.
Again, louder, the minister pointed at the boy and asked, “Where is God?”
Again the boy looked all around but said nothing.
A third time, in a louder, firmer voice, the minister leaned far across the
desk and put his forefinger almost to the boy’s nose, and asked “Where is
God?”
The boy panicked and ran all the way home. Finding his older brother, he
dragged him upstairs to their room and into the closet, where they usually
plotted their mischief. He finally said, “We are in B-I-I-I-I-G trouble now!”
The older boy asked, “What do you mean, B-I-I-I-I-G trouble?”
His brother replied, “God is missing and they think we did it.”
What Is a Boy?
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find
a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes,
weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: to enjoy every
second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with
noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the
adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere — on top of, underneath, inside of,
climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers
love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate
them, adults ignore them, and Heaven protects them. A boy is Truth
with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with
bubble gum in its hair, and the Hope of the future with a frog in its
pocket.
When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding
jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his
brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic, jungle
creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite — he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion
of a sword-swallower, the energy of a pocket-sized atomic bomb, the
curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of a Paul
Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the
enthusiasm of a firecracker, and when he makes something, he has five
thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy
across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large
animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not
much for Sunday School, company, schools, books without pictures,
music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else
gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can
cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, three feet of
string, an empty Bull Durham sack, two gum drops, six cents, a
slingshot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code
ring with a secret compartment.
A boy is a magical creature — you can lock him out of your workshop,
but you can’t lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your
study, but you can’t get him out of your mind. Might as well give
up — he is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master — a
freckled-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing, bundle of noise. But when
you come home at night with only shattered pieces of your hopes and
dreams, he can mend them like new with two magic words, “Hi Dad!”
Alan Beck
Matthew Sails
About 10 years ago I taught a group of children to sail. They were bright, enthusiastic and as keen to enjoy life as any other child. All however, had a serious disability. Three were in wheelchairs, paralyzed from the waist down. One was nearly blind and had a deformity of his right arm. Two were able to walk with difficulty, afflicted with Cerebral palsy. The seventh little boy I will never forget. I will call him Matthew. He too had cerebral palsy and was very badly afflicted. His hands and arms were both deformed from the disease and inactivity. His back was bent. His face was distorted and his legs did not work. Even his laughter was a tinkling cough, which racked his body. To speak, Matthew had the help of a letter board. Slowly, and with deliberate determination, he would point out with distorted hands, letter by letter, what he wanted to say. Sometimes he would try to talk. His voice was so distorted that even his constant caretaker could not understand most of his whispered growl. Yet he was always bright and cheerful and loved to try everything his classmates were doing, both in the boat and in the classroom.
I loved my time with them; they were always so cheerful and full of life. They learnt fast and most of all enjoyed every minute of the classes. But despite all that I was the one who learned the greatest lesson. One day the sailing centre was assailed by a storm. The wind howled and the rain came down in torrents. Rather than cancel the session we decided to work in a classroom. All the children joined in. Just like other children they all wanted to answer the questions I asked. It was important to get them all involved. I would ask questions of the quieter children to draw them out too.
Often they would loudly interrupt each other, trying to get an answer in before one of the others. But when Matthew wanted to answer a question it was different. All of a sudden they all quieted. Matthew whispered and gesticulated at his board. They waited. Matthew struggled with dogged persistence until the answer was spelled out. Then, if I did not understand, one of the other children would work with him until the answer was clear. When Matthew had answered his question the children were, almost magically, transformed back into a rabble of noisy and enthusiastic children.
All of these children were heroes in their own way. But the tolerance they afforded to Matthew with his most severe disabilities was inspirational. At just fourteen years old, these disabled children had learned to afford care, respect and help to someone less fortunate than themselves. If only the rest of the world were able to learn the same lessons. Bigotry, violence and intolerance would be gone.
by Damon Guy
High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, England
God Lives Under the Bed
My brother Kevin thinks God lives under his bed. At least that’s what I heard
him say one night. He was praying out loud in his dark bedroom, and I stopped
outside his closed door to listen. Are you there, God?” he said. Where are
you? Oh, I see. Under the bed.” I giggled softly and tiptoed off to my own
room. Kevin’s unique perspectives are often a source of amusement. But that
night something else lingered long after the humor. I realized for the first
time the very different world Kevin lives in.
He was born 30 years ago, mentally disabled as a result of difficulties during
labor. Apart from his size (he’s 6-foot-2), there are few ways in which he is
an adult. He reasons and communicates with the capabilities of a 7-year-old,
and he always will. He will probably always believe that God lives under his
bed, that Santa Claus is the one who fills the space under our tree every
Christmas, and that airplanes stay up in the sky because angels carry them. I
remember wondering if Kevin realizes that he is different.
Is he ever dissatisfied with his monotonous life? Up before dawn each day, ff
to work at a workshop for the disabled, home to walk our cocker spaniel,
returning to eat his favorite macaroni-and-cheese for dinner, and later to bed.
The only variations in the entire scheme are laundry days, when he hovers
excitedly over the washing machine like a mother with her newborn child. He
does not seem dissatisfied. He lopes out to the bus every morning at 7:05, eager
for a day of simple work. He wrings his hands excitedly while the water boils
on the stove before dinner, and he stays up late twice a week to gather our
dirty laundry for his next day’s laundry chores.
And Saturdays-oh, the bliss of Saturdays! That’s the day my dad takes Kevin to
the airport to have a soft drink, watch the planes land, and speculate loudly on
the destination of each passenger inside. “That one’s going to Chi-car-go!”
Kevin shouts as he claps his hands. His anticipation is so great he can hardly
sleep on Friday nights.
I don’t think Kevin knows anything exists outside his world of daily rituals and
weekend field trips. He doesn’t know what it means to be discontent. His life
is simple. He will never know the entanglements of wealth, of power, and he
does not care what brand of clothing he wears or what kind of food he eats. He
recognizes no differences in people, treating each person as an equal and a
friend. His needs have always been met, and he never worries that one day they
may not be. His hands are diligent. Kevin is never so happy as when he is
working. When he unloads the dishwasher or vacuums the carpet, his heart is
completely in it. He does not shrink from a job when it is begun, and he does
not leave a job until it is finished.
But when his tasks are done, Kevin knows how to relax. He is not obsessed with
his work or the work of others. His heart is pure. He still believes everyone
tells the truth, promises must be kept, and when you are wrong, you apologize
instead of argue. Free from pride and unconcerned with appearances, Kevin is
not afraid to cry when he is hurt, angry or sorry. He is always transparent,
always sincere. And he trusts God. Not confined by intellectual reasoning, when
he comes to Christ, he comes as a child. Kevin seems to know God to really be
friends with Him in a way that is difficult for an “educated” person to grasp.
God seems like his closest companion. In my moments of doubt and frustrations
with my Christianity, I envy the security Kevin has in his simple faith.
It is then that I am most willing to admit that he has some divine knowledge
that rises above my mortal questions. It is then that I realize that perhaps he
is not the one with the handicap – I am. My obligations, my fear, my pride, my
circumstances-they all become disabilities when I do not submit them to Christ.
Who knows if Kevin comprehends things that I can never learn? After all, he has
spent his whole life in that kind of innocence, praying after dark and soaking
up the goodness and love of the Lord. And one day, when the mysteries of heaven
are opened, and we are all amazed at how close God really is to our hearts, I’ll
realize that God heard the simple prayers of a boy who believed that God lived
under his bed. Kevin won’t be surprised at all.
Pancakes
Six year old Brandon decided one Saturday morning to fix his parents pancakes.
He found a big bowl and spoon, pulled a chair to the counter, opened the
cupboard and pulled out the heavy flour cannister, spilling it on the floor. He
scooped some of the flour into the bowl with his hands, mixed in most of a cup
of milk and added some sugar, leaving a floury trail on the floor which by now
had a few tracks left by his kitten. Brandon was covered with flour and getting
frustrated.
He wanted this to be something very good for Mom and Dad, but it was getting
very bad. He didn’t know what to do next, whether to put it all into the oven
or on the stove, (and he didn’t know how the stove worked!). Suddenly he saw his
kitten licking from the bowl of mix and reached to push her away, knocking the
egg carton to the floor. Frantically he tried to clean up this monumental mess
but slipped on the eggs, getting his pajamas white and sticky.
And just then he saw Dad standing at the door. Big crocodile tears welled up in
Brandon’s eyes. All he’d wanted to do was something good, but he’d made a
terrible mess. He was sure a scolding was coming, maybe even a spanking. But his
father just watched him. Then, walking through the mess, he picked up his crying
son, hugged him and loved him, getting his own pajamas white and sticky in the
process.
That’s how God deals with us. We try to do something good in life, but it turns
into a mess. Our marriage gets all sticky or we insult a friend or we can’t
stand our job or our health goes sour. Sometimes we just stand there in tears
because we can’t think of anything else to do. That’s when God picks us up and
loves us and forgives us, even though some of our mess gets all over Him. But
just because we might mess up, we can’t stop trying to “make pancakes,” for God
or for others. Sooner or later we’ll get it right, and then they’ll be glad we
tried…
Little Note, A
I heard the story of an eight year old girl in a
Pennsylvania orphanage who was introverted, unattractive
and regarded as a problem. She had been transferred from
two previous institutions, and now this director was
looking for some excuse to get rid of her.
One day, someone noticed the little girl was writing a
letter. Well, it was a firm rule of the orphanage that
any communication from a child had to be approved before
it was mailed. The next day, the director and her
assistant watched as the child left the dormitory and
made her way down to the main gate. Near the gate was a
large tree with roots that were above the ground. From
a distance, they saw the child carefully hide the letter
in the crevasse of one the of the roots. Then the little
girl ran back to the dormitory.
The director, thinking this was the evidence she needed
to get rid of the girl, quickly retrieved the letter and
tore it open. Then, without saying a word, she handed
the note to her assistant. The note read, “To anybody who
finds this: I love you.”
On this Valentine’s day — and every day — all the world
really needs is love.
- Neil Eskelin
Love your enemies. It’ll sure make them feel foolish!
Pretty Good Not Good Enough
There once was a pretty good student,
Who sat in a pretty good class
And was taught by a pretty good teacher,
Who always let pretty good pass.
He wasn’t terrific at reading,
He wasn’t a whiz-bang at math.
But for him, education was leading
Straight down a pretty good path.
He didn’t find school too exciting,
But he wanted to do pretty well,
And he did have some trouble with writing,
And nobody had taught him to spell.
When doing arithmetic problems,
Pretty good was regarded as fine,
Five plus five needn’t always add up to be 10,
A pretty good answer was nine.
The pretty good class that he sat in
Was part of a pretty good school.
And the student was not an exception,
On the contrary, he was the rule.
The pretty good school that he went to
Was there in a pretty good town,
And nobody there seemed to notice
He could not tell a verb from a noun.
The pretty good student in fact was
Part of a pretty good mob.
And the first time he knew what he lacked was
When he looked for a pretty good job.
It was then, when he sought a position,
He discovered that life could be tough,
And he soon had a sneaky suspicion
Pretty good might not be good enough.
The pretty good town in our story
Was part of a pretty good state,
Which had pretty good aspirations,
And prayed for a pretty good fate.
There was once a pretty good nation,
Pretty proud of the greatness it had,
Which learned much too late,
If you want to be great,
Pretty good is, in fact, pretty bad.
—Charles Osgood
My Child, My Roommate
MY CHILD, MY ROOMATE
I’ve called this town meeting to get your attention,
There’s a few pressing things that I’d like to mention,
Since no one wants to hear what I have to say,
You can all read this poem and make decisions today.
You are my offspring and you are so dear,
You’re also adults and your’re living here,
But, this day will herald a new set of rules,
Because, I’m your parent and not a work mule.
A box for soiled clothing will be put in your room,
And when you’ve nothing to wear, you’ll wash, I assume,
Launder your bed linens when you can’t take the smell,
Or choose better amenities at a local motel.
We’ll spend quality time cooking our meals,
Taking turns washing dishes won’t be a big deal,
Mopping floors will just give us more time to bond,
With letters, not toll calls, you’ll correspond.
Trash will go out when day turns to night,
And the dog needs to potty at first morning light,
All yelling and fighting really, only offends,
Adults living together need to be friends.
We’ll all arise at a decent hour each morn,
Like your dad has been doing since the day you were born,
We must all contribute to the big, heavy load,
No cow to eat grass, so it has to be mowed.
Your are my roommates and that’s more than fair,
As long as we respect and learn how to share,
But, if these rules fail and you expect something more,
I have one thing to say and that’s, “Hit The Door”!
Judith Hartley
Someone Else’s Child
One insanely hot and humid summer day about 1997, my friend Shelia and I
treated our pre-teens and their friends to a day at Libertyland in
Memphis, Tennessee. Libertyland is an aging, but nice amusement park
with some really good rides. Libertyland also offers musical reviews.
They manage to find incredibly talented teenagers to put on four or more
shows a day; it has to be a grueling job. The theatre is shaded, but
it’s an outdoor theatre, so there is no air conditioning.
When Shelia and I took our group to Libertyland, it was mid-week and
late summer, so the park didn’t have many people in it. Being typical
mom-types, by mid-afternoon Shelia and I were hot and worn out… while
the kids were still full of energy and happy to continue riding the
rides. We decided to let the kids make themselves sick riding the
loop-the-loops, while the two of us found a cool place to sit.
We found a bench in the theatre. All we wanted to do was just plop down,
rest and drink something cold. A few other people were gathered in the
theatre with the same intentions, looking for a refuge from the heat and
a few moments rest.
As luck would have it, a show was scheduled to begin within a few
minutes. The performers put on a wonderful, energetic, upbeat show, full
of rock and roll and disco tunes. Unfortunately, their audience of only
twenty people seeking respite from the heat didn’t seem to care whether
there was good entertainment or not.
At the end of the show, the meager audience gave half-hearted polite
applause. My friend Shelia, however, leapt to her feet, gave a standing
ovation and hooped and hollered as if she had seen the most amazing
Broadway production in her life.
She looked down at me and said, “These are someone else’s kids. Since
their moms aren’t here, we need to support them.” Wow! In that instant
Shelia gave me a perspective I had never thought of! Of course, then I
stood by my friend, becoming a surrogate “stage mom” for that moment,
cheering those hard-working kids.
That happened over six years ago and Shelia’s words still stay with me.
In a fast food place, I try to remember that the teen behind the counter
is someone’s child, and so is the pizza delivery boy and the girl at the
checkout counter in the grocery store. With that perspective, I treat
those kids as I would want other people to treat my own children.
I especially take Shelia’s insight to heart when I see a teen in
training and unsure of him or herself. At that point I go out of my way
to give words of encouragement, just as I would for my own child.
Thanks, Shelia, for giving a whole new twist to the golden rule: “Do
unto others’ children as you would have them do unto yours!”
Deborah Lackey
Tennessee, USA
Kids Comments on God
A Nun asked her class to write notes to God.
Here are some they handed in:
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Dear God:
I didn’t think orange went with purple until I saw the sunset You made on Tuesday. That was cool.
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Dear God:
Instead of letting people die and having to make new ones, why don’t you keep the ones You already have?
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Dear God:
Maybe Cain and Abel would not have killed each other if they had their own rooms. That’s what my Mom did for me and my brother.
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Dear God:
If You watch me in church on Sunday, I’ll show You my new shoes.
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Dear God:
I bet it is very hard to love everyone in the whole world. There are only 4 people in our family and I’m having a hard time loving all of them.
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Dear God:
In school they told us what You do. Who does it when You are on vacation?
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Dear God:
Are You really invisible or is it just a trick?
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Dear God:
Is it true my father won’t get into heaven if he uses his bowling words in the house?
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Dear God:
Did You mean for the giraffe to look like that or was it an accident?
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Dear God:
Who draws the lines around the countries?
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Dear God:
I went to this wedding and they kissed right in the church. Is that OK?
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Dear God:
Did You really mean “do unto others as they do unto you”? Because if you did, then I’m going to get my brother good.
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Dear God:
Thank You for the baby brother, but I think you got confused because what I prayed for was a puppy.
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Dear God:
Please send me a pony. I never asked for anything before. You can look it up.
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Dear God:
I want to be just like my Daddy when I get big, but not with so much hair all over.
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Dear God:
You don’t have to worry about me; I always look both ways.
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Dear God:
I think about You sometimes, even when I’m not praying.
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Dear God:
Of all the people who worked for You, I like Noah and David the best.
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Dear God:
My brother told me about being born but it doesn’t sound right. He is just kidding, isn’t he?
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Dear God:
I would like to live 900 years just like the guy in the Bible.
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Dear God:
We read Thomas Edison made light. But in Sunday school they said You did it. So, I bet he stole Your idea.
