Daddys Poem

Her hair was up in a pony tail,

Her favorite dress tied with a bow.

Today was Daddy's Day at school,

And she couldn't wait to go.

But her mommy tried to tell her,

That she probably should stay home.

Why the kids might not understand,

If she went to school alone.

But she was not afraid;

She knew just what to say.

What to tell her classmates

Of why he wasn't there today.

But still her mother worried,

For her to face this day alone.

And that was why once again,

She tried to keep her daughter home.

But the little girl went to school

Eager to tell them all.

About a dad she never sees

A dad who never calls. 

There were daddies along the wall in back,

For everyone to meet.

Children squirming impatiently,

Anxious in their seats

One by one the teacher called

A student from the class.

To introduce their daddy,

As seconds slowly passed.

At last the teacher called her name,

Every child turned to stare.

Each of them was searching,

A man who wasn't there.

"Where's her daddy at?"

She heard a boy call out.

"She probably doesn't have one,"

Another student dared to shout.

And from somewhere near the back,

She heard a daddy say,

"Looks like another deadbeat dad,

Too busy to waste his day."

The words did not offend her,

As she smiled up at her Mom.

And looked back at her teacher, who told her to go on.

And with hands behind her back,

Slowly she began to speak.

And out from the mouth of a child,

Came words incredibly unique.

"My Daddy couldn't be here,

Because he lives so far away.

But I know he wishes he could be,

Since this is such a special day.

And though you cannot meet him,

I wanted you to know.

All about my daddy,

And how much he loves me so.

He loved to tell me stories

He taught me to ride my bike.

He surprised me with pink roses,

And taught me to fly a kite.

We used to share fudge sundaes,

And ice cream in a cone.

And though you cannot see him.

I'm not standing here alone.

"Cause my daddy's always with me,

Even though we are apart

I know because he told me,

He'll forever be in my heart"

With that, her little hand reached up,

And lay across her chest.

Feeling her own heartbeat,

Beneath her favorite dress.

And from somewhere there in the crowd of dads,

Her mother stood in tears.

Proudly watching her daughter,

Who was wise beyond her years.

For she stood up for the love

Of a man not in her life.

Doing what was best for her,

Doing what was right.

And when she dropped her hand back down,

Staring straight into the crowd.

She finished with a voice so soft,

But its message clear and loud.

"I love my daddy very much,

he's my shining star.

And if he could, he'd be here,

But heaven's just too far.

You see he is a Marine

And died just this past year

When a roadside bomb hit his convoy

And taught Americans to fear.

But sometimes when I close my eyes,

it's like he never went away."

And then she closed her eyes,

And saw him there that day.

And to her mother's amazement,

She witnessed with surprise.

A room full of daddies and children,

All starting to close their eyes.

Who knows what they saw before them,

Who knows what they felt inside.

Perhaps for merely a second,

They saw him at her side.

"I know you're with me Daddy,"

To the silence she called out.

And what happened next made believers,

Of those once filled with doubt.

Not one in that room could explain it,

For each of their eyes had been closed.

But there on the desk beside her,

Was a fragrant long-stemmed pink rose.

And a child was blessed, if only for a moment,

By the love of her shining star.

And given the gift of believing,

That heaven is never too far.

They say it takes a minute to find a special person,

An hour to appreciate them,

A day to love them, but then an entire

Life to forget them.

Send this to the people you'll never forget and

Remember to send it also to the person that sent

it to you. It's a short message to let them know

that you'll never forget them.

If you don't send it to anyone, it means you're

in a hurry and that you've forgotten your

friends.

Take the time…to live and love.

Until eternity. God bless.

Someday

SOMEDAY, when the kids are grown, life will be different. The memo pad on my refrigerator door will read, "Afternoon at hairdresser," or, "browse through art gallery," or, "start golf lessons"... instead of, "pediatrician at 2:00," or, "Cub Pack Meeting.

SOMEDAY, when the kids are grown, the house will be free of graffiti. There will be no crayoned smiley faces on the walls, no names scrawled in furniture dust, no pictures fingered on steamy windows, and no initials etched in bars of soap.

SOMEDAY, when the kids are grown, I'll get through a whole chapter of an engrossing book without being interrupted to sew a nose on a teddy bear, stop a toddler from eating the dog food, or rescue the cat from the toy box.

SOMEDAY, when the kids are grown, I won't find brown apple cores under the beds, empty spindles on the toilet paper hanger, or fuzzy caterpillars in denim jeans. And I will be able to find a pencil in the desk drawer, a slice of leftover pie in the refrigerator, and the comics still in the center of the newspaper.

SOMEDAY, when the kids are grown, I'll breeze right past the gumball machine in the supermarket without having to fumble for pennies; I'll stroll freely down each aisle without fear of inadvertently passing the candy or toy sections; and I'll choose cereal without considering what noise it makes, what prize it contains, or what color it comes in.

SOMEDAY, when the kids are grown, I'll prepare Quiche Loraine, or Scallops Amandine, or just plain liver and onions, and no one will say, "Yuk! I wish we were having hot dogs!" or, "Jimmy's lucky, his Mom lets him eat chocolate bars for dinner,"; And we'll eat by candle light, with no one trying to roast their peas and carrots over the flame to "make them taste better," or arguing about who gets to blow out the candle when we're done.

SOMEDAY, when the kids are grown, I'll get ready for my bath without first having to remove a fleet of boats, two rubber alligators, and a soggy tennis ball from the tub. I'll luxuriate in hot, steamy water and billows of bubbles for a whole hour, and no fists will pound on the door, no small voices will yell, "Hurry up, Mommy! I gotta go!

YES, SOMEDAY, when the kids are grown, life will be different.
They'll leave our nest, and the house will be Quiet... and calm... and empty... and lonely. And I won't like that at all! And then... I'll spend my time, not looking forward to SOMEDAY, but looking back at YESTERDAY.

Recognize all of the angels-in-training around you.

-- Author unknown

Healing power of music

I turned onto the street where my father lives. The closer I got to the house, the more I dreaded seeing him.

Since Mum died and he lived alone, Dad was often angry, and lately he was getting more and more confused. Today promised to be worse than usual. He had a new aid named Liuda, from our home country of Lithuania. The presence of a stranger was bound to make Dad even more irritable.

Sure enough, Dad started complaining as soon as I got in the door. “This new girl doesn’t know anything,” he grumbled.

“It’ll take some time for her to learn how to help you,” I reassured him.

The three of us sat awkwardly in the living room. I wished I could think of something to say. Lord, please help us feel more comfortable with this arrangement. 

Liuda sprang to her feet. Walking over to Dad’s record player, she dropped a Lithuanian folk record onto the turntable. The familiar accordion music played. Dad started singing. Liuda smiled.

The music seemed to drive all the tension from the room. We chatted about Lithuania. It was one of the nicest visits Dad and I had ever had.

When I left he hugged me good-bye and asked me to look at old photos with him and Liuda next time. For a moment I glimpsed the old Dad. The man I’d always loved spending time with.

I’d come to Dad’s expecting the worst. But with Liuda’s help and a little music from the old country, I’d found what I would always love. 

Who I am makes a difference

A teacher in New York decided to honour each of her seniors in high school by telling them the difference they each made. She called each student to the front of the class, one at a time.

First she told each of them how they had made a difference to her and the class. Then she presented each of them with a blue ribbon imprinted with gold letters, which read, "Who I Am Makes a Difference."

Afterwards the teacher decided to do a class project to see what kind of impact recognition would have on a community. She gave each of the students three more ribbons and instructed them to go out and spread this acknowledgment ceremony. Then they were to follow up on the results, see who honored whom and report back to the class in about a week.

One of the boys in the class went to a junior executive in a nearby company and honored him for helping him with his career planning. He gave him a blue ribbon and put it on his shirt. Then he gave him two extra ribbons and said, "We're doing a class project on recognition, and we'd like you to go out, find somebody to honor, give them a blue ribbon, then give them the extra blue ribbon so they can acknowledge a third person to keep this acknowledgment ceremony going. Then please report back to me and tell me what happened."

Later that day the junior executive went in to see his boss, who had been noted, by the way, as being kind of a grouchy fellow. He sat his boss down and he told him that he deeply admired him for being a creative genius. The boss seemed very surprised. The junior executive asked him if he would accept the gift of the blue ribbon and would he give him permission to put it on him.

His surprised boss said, "Well, sure." The junior executive took the blue ribbon and placed it right on his boss's jacket above his heart. As he gave him the last extra ribbon, he asked, "Would you do me a favor? Would you take this extra ribbon and pass it on by honoring somebody else? The young boy who first gave me the ribbons is doing a project in school and we want to keep this recognition ceremony going and find out how it affects people."

That night the boss came home to his 14-year-old son and sat him down. He said, "The most incredible thing happened to me today. I was in my office and one of the junior executives came in and told me he admired me and gave me a blue ribbon for being a creative genius. Imagine. He thinks I'm a creative genius. Then he put this blue ribbon that says "Who I Am Makes a Difference," on my jacket above my heart. He gave me an extra ribbon and asked me to find somebody else to honor. As I was driving home tonight, I started thinking about whom I would honor with this ribbon and I thought about you. I want to honor you. My days are really hectic and when I come home I don't pay a lot of attention to you. Sometimes I scream at you for not getting good enough grades in school and for your bedroom being a mess, but somehow tonight, I just wanted to sit here and, well, just let you know that you do make a difference to me. Besides your mother, you are the most important person in my life. You're a great kid and I love you!"

The startled boy started to sob and sob, and he couldn't stop crying. His whole body shook. He looked up at his father and said through his tears, "Dad, earlier tonight I sat in my room and wrote a letter to you and Mom explaining why I had killed myself and asking you to forgive me. I was going to commit suicide tonight after you were asleep. I just didn't think that you cared at all. The letter is upstairs. I don't think I need it after all."

His father walked upstairs and found a heartfelt letter full of anguish and pain. The envelope was addressed, "Mom and Dad."

The boss went back to work a changed man. He was no longer a grouch, but made sure to let all his employees know that they made a difference. The junior executive helped several other young people with career planning and never forgot to let them know that they made a difference in his life... one being the boss's son.

And the young boy and his classmates learned a valuable lesson.

WHO YOU ARE DOES MAKE A DIFFERENCE.

Dad

For 52 years my father got up every morning at 5:30 a.m., except Sunday, and went to work. For 52 years he returned home at 5:30 p.m., like clockwork, for dinner at 6:00 p.m. I never remember my father taking a "night out with the boys," nor do I ever recall my father drinking. All he asked from me as his daughter was to hold his hammer while he repaired something, just so we could have some time to talk to each other. I never saw my father home from work ill, nor did I ever see my father lay down to take a nap. He had no hobbies, other than taking care of his family. For 22 years, since I left home for college, my father called me every Sunday at 9:00 a.m. He was always interested in my life, how my family was doing, and I never once heard him lament about his lot in life. The calls even came when he and my mother were in Australia, England or Florida. Nine years ago when I purchased my first house, my father, 67 years old, spent eight hours a day for three days in the 80-degree Kansas heat, painting my house. He would not allow me to pay someone to have it done. All he asked, was a glass of iced tea, and that a hold a paint brush for him and talk to him. But I was too busy, I had a law practice to run, and I could not take the time to hold the paint brush, or talk to my father. Five years ago, at age 71 again in the sweltering Kansas heat, my father spent five hours putting together a swingset for my daughter. Again, all he asked was that I get him a glass of iced tea, and talk to him. But again, I had laundry to do, and the house to clean. Four years ago, my father drove all the way from Denver to Topeka, with an eight foot Colorado Blue Spruce in his trunk, so that my husband and I could have a part of Colorado growing on our land. I was preparing for a trip that weekend and couldn't spend much time tallied to Daddy. The morning or Sunday, January 16, 1996, my father telephoned me as usual, this time from my sister's home in Florida. We conversed about the tree he had brought me, "Fat Albert," but that morning he called the tree "Fat Oscar," and he had seemed to have forgotten some things we had discussed the previous week. I had to get to church, and I cut the conversation short. The call came at 4:40 p.m., that day, my father was in the hospital in Florida with an aneurysm. I got on an airplane immediately, and on the way, I thought of all the times I had not taken the time to talk to my father. I realized that I had no idea who he was or what his deepest thoughts were. I vowed that when I arrived, I would make up for the lost time, and have a nice long talk with him and really get to know him. I arrived in Florida at 1 a.m., my father had passed away at 9:12 p.m. This time it was he who did not have time to talk, or time to wait for me. In the years since his death I have learned much about my father, and even more about myself. As a father he never asked me for anything but my time, now he as all my attention, every single day.

A Brother's Hands

Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of Albrecht Durer the Elder's children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy.

After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg.

Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works.

When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will support you."

All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated over and over, "No ... no ... no ... no."

Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look ... look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother ... for me it is too late."

More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office.

One day, long ago, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands."

--Unknown

The Father's Eyes

This teenager lived alone with his father, and the two of them had a very special relationship. Even though the son was always on the bench, his father was always in the stands cheering. He never missed a game.

This young man was still the smallest of the class when he entered high school. But his father continued to encourage him, but also made it very clear that he did not have to play football if he didn't want to. But the young man loved football and
decided to hang in there. He was determined to try his best at every practice, and perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior.

All through high school he never missed a practice nor a game, but remained a bench warmer all four years. His faithful father was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him. When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team as a "walk-on." Everyone was sure he could never make the cut, but he did.

The coach admitted that he kept him on the roster because he always puts his heart and soul into every practice, and at the same time, provided the other members with the spirit and hustle they badly needed. The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his father. His father shared his excitement and was sent season tickets for all the college games.

This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in the game. It was the end of his senior football season, and as he trotted onto the practice field shortly before the big play off game, the coach met him with a telegram. The young man read the telegram and he became deathly silent.

Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today?" The coach put his arm gently around his shoulder and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday."

Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well. In the third quarter, when the team was ten points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran onto the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful teammate back so soon.

"Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. "All right," he said. "You can go in."

Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied. In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown.

The fans broke loose. His teammates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard!

Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that the young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got into you? How did you do it?"

He looked at the coach, with tears in his eyes, and said, "Well, you knew my dad died, but did you know that my dad was blind?" The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Dad came to all my games, but today was the first time he could see me play, and I wanted to show him I could do it!"

Breakfast at McDonalds

I am a mother of three (ages 14, 12, 3) and have recently completed my college degree.The last class I had to take was Sociology.The teacher was absolutely inspiring with the qualities that I wish every human being had been graced with.

Her last project of the term was called "Smile."The class was asked to go out and smile at three people and document their reactions.

I am a very friendly person and always smile at everyone and say hello anyway, so, I thought this would be a piece of cake, literally.

Soon after we were assigned the project, my husband, youngest son, and I went out to McDonald's one crisp March morning. It was just our way of sharing special playtime with our son.

We were standing in line, waiting to be served, when all of a sudden everyone around us began to back away, and then even my husband did.I did not move an inch... an overwhelming feeling of panic welled up inside of me as I turned to see why they had moved.

As I turned around I smelled a horrible "dirty body" smell, and there standing behind me were two poor homeless men. As I looked down at the short gentleman, close to me, he was "smiling".

His beautiful sky blue eyes were full of God's Light as he searched for acceptance. He said, "Good day" as he counted the few coins he had been clutching.

The second man fumbled with his hands as he stood behind his friend. I realized the second man was mentally challenged and the blue-eyed gentleman was his salvation. I held my tears as I stood there with them.

The young lady at the counter asked him what they wanted. He said, "Coffee is all Miss," because that was all they could afford (If they wanted to sit in the restaurant and warm up, they had to buy something. He just wanted to be warm).

Then I really felt it - the compulsion was so great I almost reached out and embraced the little man with the blue eyes. That is when I noticed all eyes in the restaurant were set on me, judging my every action.

I smiled and asked the young lady behind the counter to give me two more breakfast meals on a separate tray. I then walked around the corner to the table that the men had chosen as a resting spot. I put the tray on the table and laid my hand on the blue-eyed gentleman's cold hand.

He looked up at me with tears in his eyes and said, "Thank you."

I leaned over, began to pat his hand and said, "I did not do this for you. God is here working through me to give you hope."

I started to cry as I walked away to join my husband and son. When I sat down my husband smiled at me and said, "That is why God gave you to me, Honey, to give me hope."

We held hands for a moment and at that time, we knew that only because of the Grace that we had been given were we able to give.We are not church goers, but we are believers.That day showed me the pure Light of God's sweet love.

I returned to college, on the last evening of class, with this story in hand. I turned in "my project" and the instructor read it. Then she looked up at me and said, "Can I share this?"

I slowly nodded as she got the attention of the class.

She began to read and that is when I knew that we, as human beings and being part of God, share this need to heal people and to be healed.

In my own way I had touched the people at McDonald's, my husband, son, instructor, and every soul that shared the classroom on the last night I spent as a college student.

I graduated with one of the biggest lessons I would ever learn: UNCONDITIONAL ACCEPTANCE.

Much love and compassion is sent to each and every person who may read this and learn how to "LOVE PEOPLE AND USE THINGS - NOT LOVE THINGS AND USE PEOPLE."

Time is precious

When I was a little girl, I remember that when my dad was repairing something,  he asked me to hold the hammer, just so we would have a time for a conversation with each other. I never saw my dad drinking or taking a "night out with the boys“, all he did after work was taking care of his family.

I grew up and left home for college and since then, my dad calls  me every Sunday morning, no matter what. When several years later I bought a house, my dad painted it for me and he asked, me to hold his paint brush and talk to him. But I was too busy in those days, I did not find any time for a conversation with my dad.

Four years ago, my dad was visiting me. He spent many hours putting together a swing set for my daughter. He asked me to bring him a cup of tea and have a talk with him, but I had to prepare for a trip that weekend, so I did not have time for any long conversations that day.

One Sunday morning we had a telephone talk as usual, I noticed that my dad had forgotten some things that we discussed lately. I was in a hurry, so our conversation was short. A few hours later that day came a call. My father was in a hospital with an aneurysm. Immediately I bought a ticket for a flight and on my way I was thinking about all the missed occasions to have a talk with my dad. 

By the time I arrived at the hospital, my father had passed away. Now it was he who did not have time for a conversation with me. I realized how little I knew about my dad, his deepest thoughts and dreams. 

After his death I learned much more about him, and even more about myself. All he ever asked from me was my time. I learned that time is precious and something that money can not buy. Life is short so make the most of what you have: Spend it with friends and family. 

A brother's hands

Back in the fifteenth century, in a tiny village near Nuremberg, lived a family with eighteen children. Eighteen! In order merely to keep food on the table for this mob, the father and head of the household, a goldsmith by profession, worked almost eighteen hours a day at his trade and any other paying chore he could find in the neighborhood. Despite their seemingly hopeless condition, two of Albrecht Durer the Elder's children had a dream. They both wanted to pursue their talent for art, but they knew full well that their father would never be financially able to send either of them to Nuremberg to study at the Academy.

After many long discussions at night in their crowded bed, the two boys finally worked out a pact. They would toss a coin. The loser would go down into the nearby mines and, with his earnings, support his brother while he attended the academy. Then, when that brother who won the toss completed his studies, in four years, he would support the other brother at the academy, either with sales of his artwork or, if necessary, also by laboring in the mines. They tossed a coin on a Sunday morning after church. Albrecht Durer won the toss and went off to Nuremberg.

Albert went down into the dangerous mines and, for the next four years, financed his brother, whose work at the academy was almost an immediate sensation. Albrecht's etchings, his woodcuts, and his oils were far better than those of most of his professors, and by the time he graduated, he was beginning to earn considerable fees for his commissioned works.

When the young artist returned to his village, the Durer family held a festive dinner on their lawn to celebrate Albrecht's triumphant homecoming. After a long and memorable meal, punctuated with music and laughter, Albrecht rose from his honored position at the head of the table to drink a toast to his beloved brother for the years of sacrifice that had enabled Albrecht to fulfill his ambition. His closing words were, "And now, Albert, blessed brother of mine, now it is your turn. Now you can go to Nuremberg to pursue your dream, and I will support you."

All heads turned in eager expectation to the far end of the table where Albert sat, tears streaming down his pale face, shaking his lowered head from side to side while he sobbed and repeated over and over, "No ... no ... no ... no."

Finally, Albert rose and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He glanced down the long table at the faces he loved, and then, holding his hands close to his right cheek, he said softly, "No, brother. I cannot go to Nuremberg. It is too late for me. Look ... look what four years in the mines have done to my hands! The bones in every finger have been smashed at least once, and lately I have been suffering from arthritis so badly in my right hand that I cannot even hold a glass to return your toast, much less make delicate lines on parchment or canvas with a pen or a brush. No, brother ... for me it is too late."

More than 450 years have passed. By now, Albrecht Durer's hundreds of masterful portraits, pen and silver-point sketches, watercolors, charcoals, woodcuts, and copper engravings hang in every great museum in the world, but the odds are great that you, like most people, are familiar with only one of Albrecht Durer's works. More than merely being familiar with it, you very well may have a reproduction hanging in your home or office.

One day, long ago, to pay homage to Albert for all that he had sacrificed, Albrecht Durer painstakingly drew his brother's abused hands with palms together and thin fingers stretched skyward. He called his powerful drawing simply "Hands," but the entire world almost immediately opened their hearts to his great masterpiece and renamed his tribute of love "The Praying Hands."

Family

I ran into a stranger as he passed by,

"Oh excuse me please" was my reply.



He said, "Please excuse me too;

I wasn't watching for you."



We were very polite, this stranger and I.

We went on our way and we said goodbye.



But at home a different story is told,

How we treat our loved ones, young and old

.
Later that day, cooking the evening meal,

My son stood beside me very still.



When I turned, I nearly knocked him down.
"Move out of the way," I said with a frown.


He walked away, his little heart broken.

I didn't realize how harshly I'd spoken.



While I lay awake in bed,

God's still small voice came to me and said,


"While dealing with a stranger, 
common courtesy you use, 

but the family you love, you seem to abuse.



Go and look on the kitchen floor,

You'll find some flowers there by the door.


Those are the flowers he brought for you.
He picked them himself: pink, yellow and blue.



He stood very quietly not to spoil the surprise,

you never saw the tears that filled his little eyes.
By this time, I felt very small,

And now my tears began to fall.



I quietly went and knelt by his bed;
"Wake up, little one, wake up," I said.


"Are these the flowers you picked for me?
"
He smiled, "I found 'em, out by the tree.



I picked 'em because they're pretty like you.
I knew you'd like 'em, especially the blue.
I said, "Son, I'm very sorry for the way I acted today;

I shouldn't have yelled at you that way.


He said, "Oh, Mum, that's okay.
I love you anyway."
I said, "Son, I love you too,
and I do like the flowers, especially the blue."

Author unknown

How often does this happen today in our very busy lifestyles? Our children are our future and our most precious gift.