It's just a little inspiration to get your day rolling. Listen for Words to Live By at 7:45 a.m. Monday through Saturday on The Wake Up With The Wolf Show!
I used to have a problem falling asleep at night because I had so much on my mind.
Even though I was tired, yawning and could hardly keep my eyes open, I still could not fall asleep.
Why?
I brought too much to bed with me.
I couldn't leave all my troubles and worries just outside the door. I walked in weighted down from all the challenges of my day.
Sure, I tried counting sheep but I'd lie there wondering how many sheep there were and where the heck they came from.
Then I tried counting my blessings. I couldn't fall asleep because I had so many in my life I wanted to make sure I didn't leave any of them out.
Imagine just before you nodded off you forgot to mention a friend or loved one. I was afraid if I didn't mention them they'd know about it.
"Hey, you didn't count me last night? Thanks so much! Forget that Christmas present I was going to give you!"
Or worse yet... God. I mean, you're counting blessings but you fall off just before you say, "Thank you, God."
Would I even wake up?
Seriously, there is something I learned just last night from my computer.
I had too many things on my start up menu and it was causing the computer to run slower.
That's what got me thinking.
I've conquered the "taking too much to bed” problem, but now I start my day with too much in my start up.
Stuff comes rushing in and I get overwhelmed, I bog down and run slower in the morning.
I simply need to get more organized. Like the old saying, "A place for everything and every- thing in its place." I need to leave things at the door before I go to bed. Then, instead of falling over them when I wake up, I need to make a plan the night before.
Ok, so I tried it.
I fell asleep, pen in hand, with one thing written on the list.
"Thanks, God!"
When I woke up the next day I saw it again.
There's the answer.
The first thing you do when you go to bed is to thank God.
The first thing you do when you wake up is to thank God.
Writer and philosopher Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said, "Kindness is the golden chain by which society is bound together." But I was not thinking about the golden chain of kindness one day when a dilapidated automobile, possibly held together with glue and wire, parked in front of my house. During those years, we lived in a small town just across the street from the church I served, and travelers in need constantly found their way to our home.
I was growing weary of helping the numerous people who stopped by almost daily. I was frequently awakened in the middle of an otherwise good night's sleep, to get out in the cold and help someone passing through. Once our property was vandalized; once I drove through a blizzard in order to get two people to safety; many times I felt taken for granted by penniless motorists or hitchhikers who did not thank me for help they received and complained that I didn't do more. I hadn't felt a part of a "golden chain of kindness" for awhile and, though I still offered assistance where I could, sometimes I inwardly wished they would just go away.
But on this day, a young man with a week-old beard climbed from the broken-down automobile. He had no money and no food. He asked if I could give him some work and I offered him gasoline and a meal. I told him that if he wanted to work, we'd be pleased if he'd cut the grass, but work wasn't necessary.
Though sweaty and hungry, he worked hard. Because of the afternoon heat, I expected him to give up before the job was completed. But he persisted and, after a long while, he sat wearily down in the shade. I thanked him for his work and gave him the money he needed. Then I offered him a little extra money for a task particularly well done, but he refused. "No thank you," he said in heavily accented speech. I insisted that he take the money but he stood up and once again said, "No thank you. I want to work. You keep the money." I tried again and for a third time he protested, shaking his head as he walked away.
I never saw him again. I'm sure I never will. And interestingly, he probably thinks I helped him out that day. But that is not the way it was. I didn't help him, he helped me. He helped me to believe in people again. He helped me to once again WANT to do something for those who are in need. I wish I could thank him for restoring some of my faith in the basic goodness of others and for giving me back a little of the optimism I had lost somewhere along the way. Because of him I once again felt part of a golden chain of kindness that binds us to one another.
I may have fed his body that day. But he fed my soul.
There once was a King who offered a prize to the artist who would paint the best picture of peace. Many artists tried. The King looked at all the pictures, but there were only two he really liked and he had to choose between them.
One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror for peaceful towering mountains all around it. Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought that it was a perfect picture of peace.
The other picture had mountains, too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky from which rain fell, in which lightning played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall. This did not look peaceful at all.
But when the King looked, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest. There, in the midst of the rush of angry water, sat the mother bird on her nest ... perfect peace.
Which picture do you think won the prize?
The King chose the second picture.
Do you know why?
"Because," explained the King, "peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart. That is the real meaning of peace."
A hundred times a day something new jumps in front of me begging for me to tell you about it. But, my mind can't hold onto everything, that's when it ends up in my heart.
It turns from a thought to a wish there. My heart is home to a million wishes for you to be happy, full of life and in particular, hopeful.
So, when suddenly I realized the other day that I can't save the entire world, it was overwhelming. I want to. But then, as quickly as it came, another more satisfying thought took its place.
I can save one person at a time.
Just one person. Maybe today that person is you.
This is what I held onto today.
I have heard and believed at times that we need to just live for today. It sounds simple enough.
If you find it too difficult to look at your life and think about where you want to go and what you want to accomplish, then dealing with one day at a time is easy.
No sense worrying about tomorrow's problems. Here's the better idea.
You are not making a life just for today, you are making a lifetime from it.
That means everything you do, every decision you make today is like a single thread in the fabric you are weaving.
Those threads together form a pattern.
Be guided by the principle that you become a thread in someone else's pattern by how you interact with them.
All of us woven together over a lifetime become the patchwork quilt generations after us must build on.
If you have faith, don't just apply it randomly. Often times we do the right thing when it doesn't take much effort.
Making a life means being faithful.
Have fun.
Take time to be silly. God loves the child in us, not just the children.
Making a life means living fully. Laughing often.
Love.
Take time to love unconditionally. Our faith tells us to love one another not just a select few. Not just those who are like us. All people.
Making a life means loving the life in others.
Finally, sacrifice.
Stop asking for what you can get, ask what you can give, what you can do.
Making a life means giving life to others.
"You are not making a life for a day,
you are making a lifetime from it."
I am so excited by this prospect that I'm planning this big theme party! The theme will be "I've never..."
While explaining this to a friend of mine, I laughingly gave the example of, "I've never had a baby shower, so someone would have to bring a baby gift. Then I'll donate it to the nursery at the church." I was smiling through this little explanation, until I saw the look on her face.
With tears in her eyes she said, "That's so sad!"
Well, there was a time when I felt that way, too. Finding out in my 20's that I couldn't have children was devastating. I immediately left the child care field and went to work building cables for the B-1 Bomber. The physical, repetitive labor was very good for me. Towards the end of the three years, I found that I was just borrowing my co-workers' children to do things with.
My first and only love was the children. I had a lot of time to think about all of the things I had been cheated out of. I would never hold a new born baby in my arms. I would never rock my baby to sleep. I would never get to sing lullabies. I would never get to watch my child leave for their first day of school. I would never get to be the tooth fairy! I would never get to talk about boys, or proms, or pimples! Yes, I felt that I was going to get cheated out of a lot. I would never get a Mother's Day Card!
I'm not sure when it all changed.
I don't think there was one specific moment when I realized that I had more children than any mother could possibly ever have! And, that's the answer I gave to my friend.
Smiling, I explained that as long as I work in the nursery, I will have babies to rock and sing to. As long as I am a Head Start teacher, I will have first days of school. Working with the youth will give me plenty of experience with teenagers.
Carissa lost her first tooth at my house and no one was ever a better Tooth Fairy. I hosted an exchange student from Germany last year and got to shop for prom dresses. I even cried when she gave me a locket with her picture in it, engraved with one simple word on the front, "Mom".
I still have it and wear it, and I also have the Mother's Day card she gave me. All treasures.
My babies are now growing up and having babies. Soon I'll get to have "Nana" experiences. It doesn't matter that we don't share the same genes. What we do share is a lot of love.
Truth is, I'm having a hard time finding 40 things I've never done. It's hard to find them when you're happy, productive and living your dream!
A little boy came up to his mother in the kitchen one evening while she was fixing supper, and he handed her a piece of paper that he had been writing on. After his mom dried her hands on an apron, she read it, and this is what it said:
For cutting the grass: $5.00
For cleaning up my room this week: $1.00
For going to the store for you: .50
Baby-sitting my kid brother while you went shopping: .25
Taking out the garbage: $1.00
For getting a good report card: $5.00
For cleaning up and raking the yard: $2.00
Total owed: $14.75
Well, his mother looked at him standing there, and the boy could see the memories flashing through her mind. She picked up the pen, turned over the paper he'd written on, and this is what she wrote:
"For the nine months I carried you while you grew inside me: No Charge.
For all the nights that I've sat up with you, doctored and prayed for you: No Charge.
For all the trying times, and all the tears that you've caused through the years: No Charge.
For all the nights that were filled with dread, and for the worries I knew were ahead: No Charge.
For the toys, food, clothes, and even wiping your nose: No Charge.
When you add it up, Son, the cost of my love is: No Charge."
When the boy finished reading what his mother had written, there were big tears in his eyes, and he looked straight up at his mother and said, "Mom, I sure do love you."
And then he took the pen and in great big letters he wrote: "PAID IN FULL".
His mom just hugged him and said, “You never will!”
Later the little boy asked his father why Mother seemed to cry for no reason.
“All mothers cry for no reason,” was all his dad could say.
The little boy grew up and became a man, still wondering why mothers cry. So he finally put in a call to God and when God got on the phone the man said, “God, why do mothers cry so easily.”
God said, “You see son, when I made mothers they had to be special. I made their shoulders strong enough to carry the weight of the world, yet gentle enough to give comfort. I gave them an inner strength to endure childbirth and the rejection that many times come from their children.
“I gave them a hardiness that allows them to keep going when everyone else gives up, and to take care of their families through sickness and fatigue without complaining.
“I gave them the sensitivity to love their children under all circumstances, even when their child has hurt them very badly. This same sensitivity helps them to make a child’s boo-boo feel better and helps them share a teenager’s anxieties and fears.
“I gave them a tear to shed. It’s theirs exclusively to use whenever it’s needed. It’s their only weakness.
A man stopped at a flower shop to order some flowers to be wired to his mother who lived two hundred miles away.
As he got out of his car he noticed a young girl sitting on the curb sobbing.
He asked her what was wrong and she replied, “I wanted to buy a red rose for my mother. But I only have seventy-five cents, and a rose costs two dollars.”
The man smiled and said, “Come on in with me. I’ll buy you a rose.”
He bought the little girl her rose and ordered his own mother’s flowers.
As they were leaving he offered the girl a ride home. She said, “Yes, please! You can take me to my mother.”
She directed him to a cemetery, where she placed the rose on a freshly dug grave.
The man returned to the flower shop, canceled the wire order, picked up a bouquet and drove the two hundred miles to his mother’s house.
My son has started his freshman year of college and appears to be functioning just fine without his mother. I'm trying hard to forgive him for that.
On the drive home, after we'd helped him move into his dorm room and I'd made enough of a blubbery scene to thoroughly embarrass my boy, I got to thinking about his first day of preschool. On the short drive to the school that day, he'd clutched his favorite toy, a stuffed bunny he'd inexplicably named Malcolm, and tried to be very brave. So did I.
"You're going to have a wonderful time!" I remember saying too cheerfully. He didn't look convinced. He kept rubbing his finger across Malcolm's head, something he did often to comfort the rather emotional rabbit.
"It makes Malcolm feel better," he'd once explained to me. I think it probably made my little man feel better, too.
I remember praying silently on that drive that he would like school and that the other kids would be nice to him and that his teachers would be smart enough to see how utterly special this blue-eyed child was, head and shoulders above any other kid in the school or any other kid in the world for that matter. Maybe I was a little biased. But only a little.
When we arrived at the preschool, he got out of the car with Malcolm tucked under his arm. I reminded him that Malcolm would have to stay with me. I promised to take good care of him.
"He'll be right here waiting for you when I pick you up," I said. I sounded like Mr. Rogers, way too cheerful.
For a moment, those blue eyes brimmed with tears. He rubbed Malcolm's head several times to reassure him, then placed the rabbit back in the car. I still remember watching, through my own brimming tears, as he lovingly strapped the little rabbit into the car seat.
"You stay here, Malcolm," he said, stroking the bunny's head one last time. "Only people can go to school. I'll be back soon. You'll be OK."
When we got home after dropping our son off at college, I went into his room and reached into the top of his closet, way back behind the boxes of video games and soccer trophies, and pulled out an old stuffed bunny. His ears are frayed now, and his fur looks matted; the seams in his body are visible. The top of his head is bare in several places, worn down to the fabric by a little boy's fingers.
"Hi Malcolm," I said to him, sounding again like Mr. Rogers. "Long time no see!"
I sat down on my son's bed and just stared at Malcolm for awhile. I rubbed his head several times. I think it made him feel better.
I walked into the grocery store not particularly interested in buying groceries. I wasn't hungry. The pain of losing my husband of 7 years was still too raw. And this grocery store held so many sweet memories.
He often came with me and almost every time he'd pretend to go off and look for something special. I knew what he was up to. I'd always spot him walking down the aisle with the three
yellow roses in his hands. He knew I loved yellow roses.
With a heart filled with grief, I only wanted to buy my few items and leave, but even grocery shopping was different since he had passed on. Shopping for one took time, a little more thought than it had for two.
Standing by the meat, I searched for the perfect small steak and remembered how he had loved his steak.
Suddenly a woman came beside me. She was blonde, slim and lovely in a soft green pantsuit. I watched as she picked up a large pack of T-bones, dropped them in her basket, hesitated, and then put them back... She turned to go and once again reached for the pack of steaks. She saw me watching her and
she smiled. "My husband loves T-bones, but honestly, at these prices, I don't know."
I swallowed the emotion down my throat and met her pale blue eyes. "My husband passed away eight days ago," I told her. Glancing at the package in her hands, I fought to control the
tremble in my voice. "Buy him the steaks. And cherish every moment you have together."
She shook her head and I saw the emotion in her eyes as she placed the package in her basket and wheeled away. I turned and pushed my cart across the length of the store to the dairy products. There I stood, trying to decide which size milk I should buy.
Quart, I finally decided and moved on to the ice cream. If nothing else, I could always fix myself an ice cream cone. I placed the ice cream in my cart and looked down the aisle
toward the front.
I saw first the green suit, then recognized the pretty lady coming towards me. In her arms she carried a package. On her face was the brightest smile I had ever seen. I would swear a soft halo encircled her blonde hair as she kept walking toward me, her eyes holding mine.
As she came closer, I saw what she held and tears began misting in my eyes. "These are for you," she said and placed three beautiful long stemmed yellow roses in my arms. "When you go through the line, they will know these are paid for." She leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, then smiled again. I wanted to tell her what she'd done, what the roses meant, but still unable to speak, I watched as she walked away as tears clouded my vision.
I looked down at the beautiful roses nestled in the green tissue wrapping and found it almost unreal. How did she know? Suddenly the answer seemed so clear. I wasn't alone. Oh,
you haven't forgotten me, have you? I whispered, with tears in my eyes. He was still with me, and she was his angel.
Every day, be thankful for what you have and who you are.
A few weeks after my first wife, Georgia, was called to heaven, I was cooking dinner for my son and myself. For a vegetable, I decided on frozen peas. As I was cutting open the bag, it slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. The peas, like marbles, rolled everywhere. I tried to use a broom, but with each swipe the peas rolled across the kitchen, bounced off the wall on the other side and rolled in another direction.
My mental state at the time was fragile. Losing a spouse is an unbearable pain. I got on my hands and knees and pulled them into a pile to dispose of. I was half laughing and half crying as I collected them. I could see the humor in what happened, but it doesn’t take much for a person dealing with grief to break down.
For the next week, every time I was in the kitchen, I would find a pea that had escaped my first cleanup. In a corner, behind a table leg, in the frays at the end of a mat, or hidden under a heater, they kept turning up. Eight months later I pulled out the refrigerator to clean, and found a dozen or so petrified peas hidden underneath.
At the time I found those few remaining peas, I was in a new relationship with a wonderful woman I met in a widow/widower support group. After we married, I was reminded of those peas under the refrigerator. I realized my life had been like that bag of frozen peas. It had shattered. My wife was gone. I was in a new city with a busy job and a son having trouble adjusting to his new surroundings and the loss of his mother. I was a wreck. I was a bag of spilled, frozen peas. My life had come apart and scattered.
When life gets you down; when everything you know comes apart; when you think you can never get through the tough times, remember, it is just a bag of scattered, frozen peas. The peas can be collected and life will move on. You will find all the peas. First the easy peas come together in a pile. You pick them up and start to move on. Later you will find the bigger and harder to find peas. When you pull all the peas together, life will be whole again.
The life you know can be scattered at any time. You will move on, but how fast you collect your peas depends on you. Will you keep scattering them around with a broom, or will you pick them up one-by-one and put your life back together?
I do a lot of management training each year for the Circle K Corporation, a national chain of convenience stores. Among the topics we address in our seminars is the retention of quality employees - a real challenge to managers when you consider the pay scale in the service industry. During these discussions, I ask the participants, "What has caused you to stay long enough to become a manager?" Some time back a new manager took the question and slowly, with her voice almost breaking, said, "It was a $19 baseball glove."
Cynthia told the group that she originally took a Circle K clerk job as an interim position while she looked for something better.
On her second or third day behind the counter, she received a phone call from her nine-year old son, Jessie. He needed a baseball glove for Little League. She explained that as a single mother, money was very tight, and her first check would have to go for paying bills. Perhaps she could buy his baseball glove with her second or third check.
When Cynthia arrived for work the next morning, Patricia, the store manager, asked her to come to the small room in back of the store that served as an office. Cynthia wondered if she had done something wrong or left some part of her job incomplete from the day before. She was concerned and confused.
Patricia handed her a box. "I overheard you talking to your son yesterday," she said, "and I know that it is hard to explain things to kids. This is a baseball glove for Jessie because he may not understand how important he is, even though you have to pay bills before you can buy gloves. You know we can't pay good people like you as much as we would like to; but we do care, and I want you to know you are important to us."
The thoughtfulness, empathy and love of this convenience store manager demonstrates vividly that people remember more how much an employer cares than how much the employer pays. An important lesson for the price of a Little League baseball glove.
