That's My Child

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

I was watching some little kids play soccer. These kids were only five or six years old. They were playing a real game - a serious game. Two teams, complete with coaches, uniforms, and parents. I didn't know any of them, so I was able to enjoy the game without the distraction of being anxious about winning or losing. I wished the parents and coaches could have done the same.
The teams were pretty evenly matched. I will just call them Team One and Team Two. Nobody scored in the first period. The kids were hilarious. They were clumsy and terribly inefficient. They fell over their own feet, they stumbled over the ball, they kicked at the ball and missed it, but they didn't seem to care. They were having fun.
In the second quarter, the Team One coach pulled out what must have been his first team and put in the scrubs, except for his best player who now guarded the goal. The game took a dramatic turn. I guess winning is important even when you're five years old, because the Team Two coach left his best players in, and the Team One scrubs were no match for them.
Team Two swarmed around the little guy who was now the Team One goalie. He was an outstanding athlete, but he was no match for three or four who were also very good. Team Two began to score. The Team One goalie gave it everything he had, recklessly throwing his body in front of incoming balls, trying valiantly to stop them.
Team Two scored two goals in quick succession. It infuriated the young boy. He became a raging maniac - shouting, running, diving. With all the stamina he could muster, he covered the boy who now had the ball, but that boy kicked it to another boy twenty feet away, and by the time he repositioned himself, it was too late - Team Two scored a third goal.
I soon learned who the goalie's parents were. They were nice, neat-looking people. I could tell that his dad had just come from the office - he still had his suit and tie on. They yelled encouragement to their son. I became totally absorbed, watching the boy on the field and his parents on the sidelines. After the third goal, the little kid changed. He could see it was no use, he couldn't stop them. He didn't quit, but he became quite desperate, futility was written all over him. His father changed, too. He had been urging his son to try harder, yelling advice and encouragement.
But then he changed. He became anxious. He tried to say that it was okay - to hang in there. He grieved for the pain his son was feeling. After the fourth goal, I knew what was going to happen. I've seen it before.
The little boy needed help so badly, and there was no help to be had. He retrieved the ball from the net and handed it to the referee and then he cried. He just stood there while huge tears rolled down both cheeks. He went to his knees and put his fists to his eyes - and he cried the tears of the helpless and brokenhearted.
When the boy went to his knees, I saw the father start onto the field. His wife clutched his arm and said, "Jim, don't. You'll embarrass him." But he tore loose from her and ran onto the field. He wasn't supposed to -- the game was still in progress. Suit, tie, dress shoes and all, he charged onto the field, and he picked up his son so everybody would know that this was his boy, and he hugged him and held him and cried with him. I've never been so proud of a man in my life. He carried him off the field, and when he got close to the sidelines I heard him say, "Scotty, I'm so proud of you. You were great out there. I want everybody to know that you are my son."
"Daddy," the boy sobbed, "I couldn't stop them. I tried, Daddy, I tried and tried, and they scored on me."
"Scotty, it doesn't matter how many times they scored on you. You're my son, and I'm proud of you. I want you to go back out there and finish the game.
I know you want to quit, but you can't. And, son, you're going to get scored on again, but it doesn't matter. Go on now"
It made a difference - I could tell it did. When you're all alone and you're getting scored on - and you can't stop them, it means a lot to know that it doesn't matter to those who love you. The little guy ran back on to the field-and they scored two more times, but it was okay.

Most of All

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

I love you, Dad, for all the things you do. You make laugh when I am feeling blue.You can untie the hardest knot of all, Although I've tugged the lace until it's small.
You know the reason for 'most everything, Like why it rains and why bees sometime sting,Like why the sun comes up and flowers bloom,

And why a jet creates a sonic boom.
You are the closest friend I've ever had.You share with me the times both good and bad.You play those games I know you hate to play And plan a trip for me each holiday.
I love you, Dad, for all the things you do,But most of all I love you, Dad, for you.

Lunch Bag, The

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

(A true story of Robert Fulghum and his 7-year-old daughter Molly)
It was Molly's job to hand her father his brown paper lunch bag each morning before he headed off to work. One morning, in addition to his usual lunch bag, Molly handed him a second paper bag. This one was worn and held together with duct tape, staples, and paper clips.
"Why two bags" Fulghum asked.
"The other is something else," Molly answered.
"What's in it?"
"Just some stuff. Take it with you."
Not wanting to hold court over the matter, Fulghum stuffed both sacks into his briefcase, kissed Molly and rushed off. At midday, while hurriedly scarfing down his real lunch, he tore open Molly's bag and shook out the contents: two hair ribbons, three small stones, a plastic dinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny sea shell, two animal crackers, a marble, a used lipstick, a small doll, two chocolate kisses, and 13 pennies.
Fulghum smiled, finished eating, and swept the desk clean - into the wastebasket - leftover lunch, Molly's junk and all.
That evening, Molly ran up behind him as he read the paper.
"Where's my bag?"
"What bag?"
"You know, the one I gave you this morning."
"I left it at the office. Why?"
"I forgot to put this note in it," she said. "And, besides, those are my things in the sack, Daddy, the ones I really like - I thought you might like to play with them, but now I want them back. You didn't lose the bag, did you, Daddy?"
"Oh, no," he said, lying. "I just forgot to bring it home. I'll bring it tomorrow."
While Molly hugged her father's neck, he unfolded the note that had not made it into the sack: "I love you, Daddy."
Molly had given him her treasures. All that a 7-year-old held dear. Love in a paper sack, and he missed it - not only missed it, but had thrown it in the wastebasket. So back he went to the office. Just ahead of the night janitor, he picked up the wastebasket and poured the contents on his desk.
After washing the mustard off the dinosaurs and spraying the whole thing with breath-freshener to kill the smell of onions, he carefully smoothed out the wadded ball of brown paper, put the treasures inside and carried it home gingerly, like and injured kitten. The bag didn't look so good, but the stuff was all there and that's what counted.
After dinner, he asked Molly to tell him about the stuff in the sack. It took a long time to tell. Everything had a story or a memory or was attached to dreams and imaginary friends. Fairies had brought some of the things. He had given her the chocolate kisses, and she had kept them for when she needed them.
"Sometimes I think of all the times in this sweet life," Fulghum concludes the story, "when I must have missed the affection I was being given. A friend calls this 'standing knee deep in the river and dying of thirst.' "
We should all remember that it's not the destination that counts in life - it's the journey.
The little girl smiles, the dinosaurs and chocolate kisses wrapped in old paper bags that we sometimes throw away too thoughtlessly, each day, each a tiny treasure.
The journey with the people we love is all that really matters. Such a simple truth so easily forgotten.

Jenny's Pearl Necklace

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

The cheerful girl with bouncy golden curls was almost five. Waiting with her mother at the checkout stand, she saw them: a circle of glistening white pearls in a pink foil box.
"Oh please, Mommy. Can I have them? Please, Mommy, please!" Quickly the mother checked the back of the little foil box and then looked back into the pleading blue eyes of her little girl's upturned face.
"A dollar ninety-five. That's almost $2. If you really want them, I'll think of some extra chores for you and in no time you can save enough money to buy them yourself. Your birthday's only a week away and you might get another crisp dollar bill from Grandma." As soon as Jenny got home, she emptied her piggy bank and counted out 17 pennies. After dinner, she did more than her share of chores. She went to the neighbor, Mrs. McJames, and asked if she could pick dandelions for ten cents. On her birthday, Grandma did give her another new dollar bill and at last she had enough money to buy the necklace.
Jenny loved her pearls. They made her feel dressed up and grown up. She wore them everywhere--Sunday school, kindergarten, even to bed. The only time she took them off was when she went swimming or had a bubble bath. Mother had told her that if they got wet, they might turn her neck green.
Jenny had a very loving daddy and every night when she was ready for bed, he would stop whatever he was doing and come upstairs to read her a story. One night when he finished the story, he asked Jenny, "Do you love me?"
"Oh yes, Daddy. You know that I love you."
"Then may I have your pearls?"
"Oh, Daddy, not my pearls. But you can have Princess--the white horse from my collection. The one with the pink tail. Remember, Daddy? The one you gave me. She's my favorite."
"That's okay, honey. Daddy loves you. Good night." And he brushed her cheek with a kiss.
About a week later, after the story time, Jenny's daddy asked again, "Do you love me?"
"Daddy, you know I love you."
"Then will you give me your pearls?"
"Oh, Daddy, not my pearls. But you can have my baby doll. The brand new one I got for my birthday. She is so beautiful and you can have the yellow blanket that matches her sleeper."
"That's okay, Honey. Sleep well. God bless you, little one. Daddy loves you." And as always, he brushed her cheek with a gentle kiss. A few nights later when her daddy came in, Jenny was sitting on her bed with her legs crossed Indian-style. As he came close, he noticed her chin was trembling and one silent tear rolled down her cheek.
"What is it, Jenny? What's the matter?"
Jenny didn't say anything but lifted her little hand up to her daddy. When she opened it, there was her little pearl necklace. With a little quiver, she finally said, "Here, Daddy. It's for you." With tears gathering in his own eyes, Jenny's kind daddy reached out with one hand to take the prized necklace. With the other hand he reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue velvet case. He handed the handsome velvet case to Jenny and told her, "Thank you for giving me your most prized possesion that you even saved for all by yourself. Here Honey, I have this for you also. I wanted to trade you, but I was going to give these to you tonight either way."
As Jenny pryed open the blue velvet box, so nice a thing itself she'd never known, the glistening white sheen of the rich genuine pearls struck her teary eyes.

It Only Takes a Second

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

A few days ago I got a call from my old college mate whom I haven't seen for a very long time. The topic, which was about all the good old times that we had and about his recent graduation, changed to a touching story when he started talking about his father.
His father's declining health made him stay at the hospital. Because of his illness, his father suffered from imsomnia and often talking to himself. My friend, who had not been able to sleep for a few days as he had to keep watch of his father's condition, became irritated and told his father to keep silence and try to get some sleep. His father said that he really wanted to sleep well because he was very tired and told my friend to leave him alone in the hospital if he did not want to keep him company.
After his father finished talking he fell unconscious and had to be rushed to the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). My friend was very sorry for he had spoken ill words towards his father.
My friend, whom I knew as a tough person, cried like a baby on the other end of the telephone. He said that from that moment on he prayed every day asking God to let his father wake up from his coma. He promised himself that whatever words came out from his father's mouth after he regained his conscious would be gladly taken. His only hope was for God to give him a chance to rectify his past mistake, a mistake that he might not forget for the rest of his life...
Often we complain when we have to accompany or to watch over our parents for years, months, days, hours or even minutes. But do we realize that our parents keep us companied and watch over us for as long as we (or they) live? Since the day we were born to our adulthood, and even when death comes to greet us, they are always at our side. When it's time for them to return to God, their memory lingers for the rest of our life.
Imagine how broken-hearted our parents will be to a seemingly inocent word of "no" which comes out from our mouth when they try to embrace us in their tender loving care, but which we often consider as something that bind us and hold us from flying the blue sky. What other words will replace the word "crying" when there are no more tears to shed from their eyes as the tears are wasted to shower our days so that our life would grow and produce fruits and flowers to liven up the dark days of the rotating wheel of life.
We can make promises to ourselves that from now on there will be no more complaints come out from our mouths when we have to watch and accompany our parents. No more complaints come out from our mouths when we feel that our parents have treated us like little children. Have faith, out there there are so many unlucky ones who have neither fathers nor mothers, who long to have the things that we most complain about, but never have them.
Actually, it takes only a second to contemplate and light the lamp that will bring us to where peace is dwelling. Now it's all up to us whether we want to spare our short time for a great and meaningful life ahead of our lives.

Golden Box, The

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

Some time ago a friend of mine punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting a roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight, and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put it under their Christmas tree. Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the next morning and said, "This is for you daddy." He was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found that the box was empty.
He yelled at her, "Don't you know that when you give someone a present, there's supposed to be something inside of it?"
The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh daddy, it's not empty. I blew kisses into the box. All for you Daddy."
The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little girl, and again begged her forgiveness.
My friend told me that he kept that gold box by his bed for years. Whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.
In a very real sense, each of us as parents has been given a gold container filled with unconditional love and kisses from our children. No more precious possession could anyone hold.

Father's Gift, The

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

A young man was getting ready to graduate from college. For many months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer's showroom, and knowing his father could well afford it, he told him that was all he wanted.
As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car. Finally, on the morning of his graduation, his father called him into his private study. His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine son, and told him how much he loved him. He handed his son a beautifully wrapped gift box.
Curious, and somewhat disappointed, the young man opened the box and found a lovely, leather-bound Bible, with the young man's name embossed in gold. Angry, he rose his voice to his father and said "with all your money, you give me a Bible?" and stormed out of the house.
Many years passed and the young man was very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and wonderful family, but realised his father very old, and thought perhaps he should go to him. He had not seen him since that graduation day.
Before he could make arrangements, he received a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed all of his possessions to his son. He needed to come home immediately and take care of things.
When he arrived at his father's house, sudden sadness and regret filled his heart. He began to search through his father's important papers and saw the still gift-wrapped Bible, just as he had left it years ago. With tears, he opened the Bible and began to turn the pages. His father had carefully underlined a verse, Matt.7:11, "And if ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children,how much more shall your Heavenly Father which is in Heaven, give to those who ask Him?"
As he read those words, a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words PAID IN FULL.
How many times do we miss God's blessings because we can't see past our own desires?

Bottom Line, The

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

There was a man who loved fine art. He loved it so much he lived for it. It had become his whole life, and had literally engulfed him. He would work really hard to save up some money, just so he could buy another piece of fine art. He would buy Rembrandt's and Picasso's and many others works of fine art.
The man had been widowed some years before but he had a son. As he raised his son, he included him in his hobby of collecting art. As his son grew, he also became a great art collector. His dad was very proud of him. Collecting fine art was something that they both loved to do and it brought them very close together.
Some time passed by and their country suddenly became engulfed in a war. The son, like so many other young men, enlisted and went off to serve his country. He had been gone for some time, and then it happened.
One day the father received a letter. It said, we regret to inform you that your son is missing in action. The father's heart was broken. He loved his son so dearly and now he truly realized how much his son meant to him. It hurt so badly not knowing what had happened to him.
A few weeks passed, and then another letter came. This letter just ripped his heart in two. It said, we regret to inform you that your son has been killed in action. The father could hardly bear to read on, but as he did he discovered the circumstances that his son had died under. The letter said that his son had made it back to safety. But that he had seen wounded soldiers out on the battlefield. And one by one, he would go back onto the battlefield and carry them to safety. As he was carrying in the last wounded soldier, a bullet struck him and killed him. A month passed by and it was now Christmas Day. The father didn't even want to get up out of bed. He just couldn't imagine spending Christmas without his son. Then he heard the doorbell ring so he went downstairs to see who was there. When he opened the door he found a young man standing there holding a package.
The young man said, Sir you don't know me. But I was the wounded soldier that your son was carrying when he was killed.
He said, "I'm not a wealthy man. I don't have anything of value that I can give you for what your son did for me. Your son had told me of your love for art, and although I'm not much of an artist, I painted a portrait of your son, and I'd like for you to have it."
The father took the package into the house and opened it. Then he went into the drawing room and took down the Rembrandt that was hanging over the fireplace. In its place he hung up the portrait of his son.
Then with tears streaming down on his face he told the young man, "This is my most prized possession. It is more valuable to me than any other work of art in my house."
The father and the young man shared a meal and Christmas Day together and then the young man left. A few years later, the father became very ill. A short time later he died. News of his death spread far and wide. Everyone was in anticipation of the great auction that was to take place for all the pieces of art the man had collected.
Finally it was announced that the auction would be held on Christmas Day. Museum curators and collectors came from all around the world.
They were all eager for the chance to bid on the fine art that was to be auctioned.
The house swelled full of people. Then the auctioneer stood up and said, "I'd like to thank you all for coming. The first piece up for auction will be the portrait behind me."
From the back of the room someone yelled out, "That's just a picture of the old man's kid! Why don't we just skip it, and get on to the real treasures?"
The auctioneer said, "We have to sell this portrait first, and then we can move on."
The auctioneer asked, "Who would start the bidding at $100?" No one answered so he asked, "Would anyone bid $50?"
Still no one answered so he asked, "Would any one bid $40?" Again no one would bid on the portrait. So the auctioneer asked, 'Will nobody bid on this portrait?"
An elderly man stood up and asked, "Would you take $10 for it? You see $10 is all that I have. I'm the neighbor from across the street and I knew the boy. I watched him grow up and I really liked him. I'd like to have the portrait. So, would you take $10 for it?" The auctioneer said, "$10 going once, going twice, and sold!" Immediately a cheer went up and the people said to each other,
"Oh boy, now we can get on to the real art."
The auctioneer then said, "I'd like to thank you all for coming. It's been a pleasure having you here today. That concludes our auction today."
The crowd grew very angry and asked, "What do you mean the auction is over? You haven't even begun to take bids on all these other works of art!"
The auctioneer said, "I'm sorry but the auction is closed. You see, according to the will of the father, WHOEVER TAKES THE SON GETS IT ALL!!! And that's the bottom line."

AAA Dad

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown

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 has all my attention, every single day.