Don't stop thinking!

Small Wooden People
The Wemmicks were small wooden people.
Each of the wooden people was carved by a woodworker named Eli. Hisworkshop sat on a hill overlooking their village.
Every Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large eyes.Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others wore coats.But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the village. Andall day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each otherstickers.
Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of gray dotstickers. Up and down the streets all over the city, people could be seensticking stars or dots on one another.
The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars.But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks gave dots.The talented ones got stars, too.. Some could lift big sticks high abovetheir heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others knew big words or couldsing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars. Some Wemmicks had starsall over them! Every time they got a star it made them feel so good thatthey did something else and got another star. Others, though, could dolittle. They got dots.
Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like the others,but he always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around andgive him dots. Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the peoplewould give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say somethingsilly, and the Wemmicks would give him more dots. After a while he hadso many dots that he didn''t want to go outside. He was afraid he woulddo something dumb such as forget his hat or step in the water, and thenpeople would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many gray dots thatsome people would come up and give him one without reason.
"He deserves lots of dots," the wooden people would agree with one another."He''s not a good wooden person."
After a while Punchinello believed them. "I''m not a good wemmick," hewould say.
The few times he went outside, he hung around other Wemmicks who hada lot of dots. He felt better around them.
One day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he''d ever met. She had nodots or stars. She was just wooden.
Her name was Lulia. It wasn''t that people didn''t try to give her stickers;it''s just that the stickers didn''t stick. Some admired Lulia for havingno dots, so they would run up and give her a star. But it would fall off.Some would look down on her for having no stars, so they would give hera dot. But it wouldn''t stay either.
''That''s the way I want to be'', thought Punchinello. ''I don''t want anyone''smarks.'' So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it. "It''s easy,"Lulia replied. "every day I go see Eli."
"Eli?"
"Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him."
"Why?"
"Why don''t you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He''s there." Andwith that the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away.
"But he won''t want to see me!" Punchinello cried out. Lulia didn''t hear.
So Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and watched the woodenpeople as they scurried around giving each other stars and dots.
"It''s not right," he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go seeEli.
He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped intothe big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stoolwas as tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see the topof the workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm. Punchinello swallowedhard. "I''m not staying here!" and he turned to leave.
Then he heard his name. "Punchinello?" The voice was deep and strong.
Punchinello stopped.
"Punchinello! How good to see you. Come and let me have a look at you."
Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman"You know my name?" the little Wemmick asked. "Of course I hoping you''d come," Eli explained.
"I came because I met someone who had no marks."
"I know. She told me about you."
"Why don''t the stickers stay on her?"
"Because she has decided that what I think is more important than whatthey think. The stickers only stick if you let them." "What?"
"The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust mylove, the less you care about the stickers."
"I''m not sure I understand."
"You will, but it will take time. You''ve got a lot of marks. For now,just come to see me every day and let me remind you how much I care."
Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground. "Remember,"Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. "You are special because Imade you. And I don''t make mistakes."
Punchinello didn''t stop, but in his heart he thought, "I think he reallymeans it." And when he did, a dot fell to the ground.
Think about it... we judge others by our standards and others judgeus by theirs, but at the end of the day we are all fellow Wemmicks.....er... Humans, perfect and imperfect in our own little ways which makeseach one unique..... special... and for those of us who believe, don''tyou agree that the opinion of our Maker is most important?
Be glad and thankful for what one has and live life to the fullest anddon''t spend too much time worrying about the "stars and dots" and don''twaste time giving out "dots" either !!!!
Max Lucado
One Step Closer

Simpler Times
In 1949, school let out for Christmas and Pedro and Emmett rode the school bus home, talking and thinking about Santa Claus. Emmett said that he had tried to be good and wanted a BB gun. Pedro had gotten old enough and big enough and bright enough to know that if Santa Claus was going to bring him his favorite toys, he needed to pray real loud so Mama, Daddy and Grandmama could hear him. He also knew that it helped to turn down the pages in the Sears & Roebuck catalog in the outhouse. But deep down, Pedro wanted to believe in Santa Claus just like his younger friend, Emmett.
Christmas morning arrived and there it was, the shiny brand new bicycle just like Pedro wanted. Also there was some fruit and a brand new Little Red Ryder BB gun. Pedro couldn''t wait to show Emmett and headed to Emmett''s house. Upon arrival, Emmett looked over at Pedro, barely able to speak, and said, "Pedro, Santa Claus didn''t come. Either I''ve been bad, or he ran out of toys." Pedro could see the hurt in Emmett''s eyes and hear the disappointment in Emmett''s voice. Pedro, without thinking, replied, "Emmett, Santa did come. He thought you were spending the night with me, and he left your BB gun at my house. I was a-bringin'' it to you."
Emmett grinned like a baked opossum and was excited as a bug in a tater patch. Emmett hugged Pedro, and Pedro hugged back. At nine years old, at that moment, Pedro once again learned there really is a Santa Claus.
On the way home on his new bike without his BB gun, Pedro kept thinking, "Please Mama, don''t be mad," and she wasn''t.
By Charles D. Williams, M.D.
One Step Closer

SHMILY
My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding with blue food coloring. "Shmily"was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet. There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents'' house as the furniture.
It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents'' game. Skepticism has kept me from believing in true love-one that is pure and enduring. However, I never doubted my grandparents'' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection which not everyone is lucky experience.
Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other''s sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble. My grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome and old he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick ''em."Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other.
But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents'' life: my grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside.
Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my grandfather''s steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened.Grandma was gone.
"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother''s funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother''s casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby.Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn''t begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.
S-h-m-i-l-y: See How Much I Love You.

Laura Jeanne Allen
One Step Closer

Red Roses
Red roses were her favorites, her name was also Rose.
And every year her husband sent them, tied with pretty bows.
The year he died, the roses were delivered to her door.
The card said, "Be my Valentine", like all the years before.
Each year he sent her roses, and the note would always say,
"I love you even more this year, than last year on this day.
My love for you will always grow, with every passing year."
She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear.
She thought, he ordered roses in advance before this day.
Her loving husband did not know, that he would pass away.
He always liked to do things early, way before the time.
Then, if he got too busy, everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special vase.
Then, sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face.
She would sit for hours, in her husband''s favorite chair.
While staring at his picture, and the roses sitting there.
A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate.
With loneliness and solitude, that had become her fate.
Then, the very hour, as on Valentines before,
The doorbell rang, and there were roses, sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in shock.
Then, went to get the telephone, to call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and she asked him, if he would explain,
Why would someone do this to her, causing her such pain?
"I know your husband passed away, more than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you''d call, and you would want to know.
The flowers you received today, were paid for in advance.
Your husband always planned ahead, he left nothing to chance.
There is a standing order, that I have on file down here,
And he has paid, well in advance, you''ll get them every year.
There also is another thing, that I think you should know,
He wrote a special little card...he did this years ago.
Then, should ever I find out that he''s no longer here,
That''s the card...that should be sent, to you the following year."
She thanked him and hung up the phone, her tears now flowing hard.
Her fingers shaking, as she slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw that he had written her a note.
Then, as she stared in total silence, this is what he wrote...
"Hello my love, I know it''s been a year since I''ve been gone,
I hope it hasn''t been too hard for you to overcome.
I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real.
For if it was the other way, I know how I would feel.
The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life.
I loved you more than words can say, you were the perfect wife.
You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need.
I know it''s only been a year, but please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy, even when you shed your tears.
That is why the roses will be sent to you for years.
When you get these roses, think of all the happiness,
That we had together, and how both of us were blessed.
I have always loved you and I know I always will.
But, my love, you must go on, you have some living still.
Please...try to find happiness, while living out your days.
I know it is not easy, but I hope you find some ways.
The roses will come every year, and they will only stop,
When your door''s not answered, when the florist stops to knock.
He will come five times that day, in case you have gone out.
But after his last visit, he will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place, where I''ve instructed him,
And place the roses where we are, together once again.
One Step Closer

Pure Blood
The day is over, you are driving home. You tune in your radio.
You hear a little blurb about a little village in India where some villagers have died suddenly, strangely, of a flu that has never been seen before. It''s not influenza, but three or four fellows are dead, and it''s kind of interesting, and they''re sending some doctors over there to investigate it. You don''t think much about it, but on Sunday, coming home from church, you hear another radio spot. Only they say it''s not three villagers, it''s 30,000 villagers in the back hills of this particular area of India, and it''s on TV that night. CNN runs a little blurb; people are heading there from the disease center in Atlanta because this disease strain has never been seen before.
By Monday morning when you get up, it''s the lead story. For it''s not just India; it''s Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and before you know it, you''re hearing this story everywhere and they have coined it now as "the mystery flu".
The President has made some comment that he and everyone are praying and hoping that all will go well over there. But everyone is won- dering, How are we going to contain it? That''s when the President of France makes a announcement that shocks Europe. He is closing their borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or any of the countries where this thing has been seen. And that''s why that night you are watching a little bit of CNN before going to bed. Your jaw hits your chest when a weeping woman is translated from a French news program into English: There''s a man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of the mystery flu. It has come to Europe. Panic strikes. As best they can tell, once you get it, you have it for a week and you don''t know it. Then you have four days of unbelievable symptoms. And then you die.
Britain closes it''s borders, but it''s too late. South Hampton, Liverpool, North Hampton, and it''s Tuesday morning when the President of the United States makes the following announcement: "Due to a national security risk, all flights to and from Europe and Asia have been canceled. If your loved ones are overseas, I''m sorry. They cannot come back until we find a cure for this thing." Within four days our nation has been plunged into an unbelievable fear. People are selling little masks for your face. People are talking about "What if it comes to this country," and preachers on Tuesday are saying, "It''s the scourge of God."
It''s Wednesday night and you are at a church prayer meeting when some- body runs in from the parking lot and says, "Turn on a radio, turn on a radio." And while the church listens to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement is made. Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital dying from the mystery flu. Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country. People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working. California. Oregon. Arizona. Florida. Massachusetts. It''s as though it''s just sweeping in from the borders.
And then, all of a sudden the news comes out. The code has been broken. A cure can be found. A vaccine can be made. It''s going to take the blood of somebody who hasn''t been infected, and so, sure enough, all through the Midwest, through all those channels of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing: Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood type taken. That''s all we ask of you. And when you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood, please make your way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals. Sure enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night, there is a long line, and they''ve got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. Your wife and your kids are out there, and they take your blood type and they say, "Wait here in the parking lot and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go home." You stand around, scared, with your neighbors, wondering what in the world is going on and that this is the end of the world.
Suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He''s yelling a name and waving a clipboard. What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, "Daddy,that''s me." Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. Wait a minute. Hold on! And they say, "It''s okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure. We want to make sure he doesn''t have the disease. We think he has got the right type."
Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and hugging one another - some are even laughing. It''s the first time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up to you and says, "Thank you, sir. Your son''s blood type is perfect. It''s clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine." As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying and laughing and crying. But then the gray- haired doctor pulls you and you wife aside and says, "May we see you for a moment? We didn''t realize that the donor would be a minor and we need...we need you to sign a consent form." You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood to be taken is empty.
"H-h-h-how many pints?" And that is when the old doctor''s smile fades and he says, "We had no idea it would be a little child. We weren''t prepared. We need it all! But-but...You don''t understand. We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We- we need it all -- we need it all!"
"But can''t you give him a transfusion?"
"If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign?
Would you sign?"
In numb silence, you do. Then they say, "Would you like to have a moment with him before we begin?" Can you walk back? Can you walk back to that room where he sits on a table saying, "Daddy? Mommy? What''s going on?" Can you take his hands and say, "Son, your mommy and I love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that didn''t just have to be. Do you understand that?" And when that old doctor comes back in and says, "I''m sorry, we''ve-we''ve got to get started. People all over the world are dying." Can you leave? Can you walk out while he is saying, "Dad? Mom? Dad? Why-why have you forsaken me?"
And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son, and some folks sleep through it, and some folks don''t even come because they go to the lake, and some folks come with a pretentious smile and just pretend to care. Would you want to jump up and say, "MY SON DIED! DON''T YOU CARE?"
Is that what GOD wants to say? "MY SON DIED. DON''T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?"
"Father, seeing it from your eyes breaks our hearts. Maybe now we can begin to comprehend the great Love you have for us."
One Step Closer

The Portrait
Once there was a Father and son who were very close and enjoyed adding valuable art pieces to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the family estate.
The widowed, elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son''s trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.
As winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action.
The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic.
Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season, a season that he and his son had so looked forward to, would visit his house no longer.
On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hand. He introduced himself to the man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you." As the two began to talk, the solider told of how the man''s son had told everyone of his, not to mention his father''s, love of fine art. "I''m an artist,"said the soldier, "and I want to give you this."
As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man''s son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man''s face in striking detail. Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace.
A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars of paintings. And then the man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.
During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that even though his son was no longer with him, the boy''s life would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn that his son had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stilled his caring heart.
As the stories of his son''s gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease the grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamored. He told his neighbors it was the greatest gift he had ever received.
The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation! Unmindful of the story of the man''s only son, but in his honor; those paintings would be sold at an auction. According to the will of the old man, all of the art works would be auctioned on Christmas day, the day he had received his greatest gift.
The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world''s most spectacular paintings.
Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim "I have the greatest collection."
The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum''s list. It was the painting of the man''s son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes passed. No one spoke. From the back of the room came, "Who cares about that painting? It''s just a picture of his son. Let''s forget it and go on to the good stuff."
More voices echoed in agreement. "No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "Now, who will take the son?" Finally, a friend of the old man spoke. "Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That''s all I have. I knew the boy, so I''d like to have it. "I have ten dollars."
"Will anyone go higher?" called the auctioneer.
After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once, going twice. Gone."
The gavel fell. Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and we can bid on these treasures!"
The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced the auction was over. Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean it''s over? We didn''t come here for a picture of some old guy''s son. What about all of these paintings? There are millions of dollars of art here! I demand that you explain what''s going on here!."
The auctioneer replied, "It''s very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son . . . gets it all."
Puts things into perspective, doesn''t it? Just as those art collectors discovered on that Christmas day, the message is still the same: the love of a Father, a Father whose greatest joy came from his son, who went away and gave his life rescuing others. And because of that Father''s love, whoever takes the Son gets it all.

Jesus said unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me. John 14:6
For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. John 3:17

One Step Closer

The Prayer
Our Father who art in Heaven. . . .
YES?
Don''t interrupt me. I''m praying. . . .
BUT YOU CALLED ME.
Called you? I didn''t call you. I''m praying. Our Father who art in Heaven....
THERE, YOU DID IT AGAIN. Did what? CALLED ME. YOU SAID, "OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN.." HERE I AM. WHAT''S ON YOUR MIND?
But I didn''t mean anything by it. I was, you know, just saying my prayers for the day. I always say the Lord''s Prayer. It makes me feel good, kind of like getting my duty done.
ALL RIGHT. GO ON.
Hallowed be thy name.
HOLD IT. WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT?
By what?
BY "HALLOWED BE THY NAME."
It means....it means....good grief, I don''t know what it means. How should I know? Its just part of the prayer. By the way, what does it mean?
IT MEANS "HONORED," "HOLY," "WONDERFUL."
Hey, that makes sense. I never thought about what "Hallowed" meant before. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.
DO YOU REALLY MEAN THAT?
Sure, why not?
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?
Doing? Nothing, I guess. I just think it would be neat if you got control of everything down here like you have up there.
HAVE I GOT CONTROL OF YOU?
Well, I go to church.
THAT ISN''T WHAT I ASKED YOU. WHAT ABOUT THAT HABIT OF LUST YOU HAVE? AND YOUR BAD TEMPER? YOU''VE REALLY GOT A PROBLEM THERE, YOU KNOW. AND THEN THERE''S THE WAY YOU SPEND YOUR MONEY...... ALL ON YOURSELF. AND WHAT ABOUT THE KINDS OF BOOKS YOU READ?
Stop picking on me! I''m just as good as some of the rest of those phonies at the church.
EXCUSE ME....I THOUGHT YOU WERE PRAYING FOR MY WILL TO BE DONE. IF THAT IS TO HAPPEN, IT WILL HAVE TO START WITH THE ONES WHO ARE PRAYING FOR IT. LIKE YOU, FOR EXAMPLE.
Oh, all right! I guess I do have some hang-ups. Now that you mention it, I could probably name some others.
SO COULD I.
I haven''t thought about it until now, but I really would like to cut out some of those things. I''d like to, you know, be really free.
GOOD, NOW WE''RE GETTING SOMEWHERE. WE''LL WORK TOGETHER.... YOU AND ME. NOW, SOME VICTORIES CAN TRULY BE WON. I''M PROUD OF YOU.
Look Lord, I need to finish up here. This is taking a lot longer than it usually does.... Give us this day our daily bread.
YOU NEED TO CUT DOWN ON THE BREAD TOO... YOU''RE OVERWEIGHT AS IT IS.
Hey, wait a minute! What is this, "Criticize Me Day?" Here I was doing my religious duty, and all of a sudden you break in and remind me of all my hang-ups.
PRAYING IS A DANGEROUS THING. YOU COULD WIND UP CHANGED YOU KNOW. THAT''S WHAT I''M TRYING TO GET ACROSS TO YOU. YOU CALLED ME, AND HERE I AM. IT''S TOO LATE TO STOP NOW. KEEP ON PRAYING. I''M INTERESTED IN THE NEXT PART OF YOUR PRAYER.. .... WELL, GO ON.
I''m scared to.
SCARED? OF WHAT? I KNOW WHAT YOU''LL SAY. TRY ME AND SEE.
Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us.
WHAT ABOUT JOE?
See I knew it! I knew you would bring him up! Why he''s told lies about me, cheated me out of money.. He never paid back that debt he owes me. I''ve sworn to get even.
BUT YOUR PRAYER...WHAT ABOUT YOUR PRAYER?
I didn''t mean it.
WELL, AT LEAST YOU''RE HONEST. BUT IT''S NOT MUCH FUN CARRYING THE LOAD OF BITTERNESS AROUND INSIDE, IS IT?
No, but I''ll feel better as soon as I get even. Boy, have I made some plans for ol'' Joe. He''ll wish he never did me any harm.
YOU WON''T FEEL ANY BETTER. YOU''LL FEEL WORSE. REVENGE ISN''T SWEET. THINK OF HOW UNHAPPY YOU ARE ALREADY. BUT I CAN CHANGE ALL THAT.
You can? How?
FORGIVE JOE. THEN I''LL FORGIVE YOU. THEN THE HATE AND SIN WILL BE JOE''S PROBLEM AND NOT YOURS...YOU MAY LOSE THE MONEY, BUT YOU WILL SETTLE YOUR HEART.
But Lord, I can''t forgive Joe.
THEN I CAN''T FORGIVE YOU.
Oh, you''re right! You always are. And more than I want revenge on Joe, I want to be right with you.... All right! I forgive him. Help him to find the right road in life, Lord. He''s bound to be awfully miserable, now that I think about it. Some way, some how, show him the right way.
THERE NOW! HOW DO YOU FEEL?
Hmmm... not bad. Not bad at all, In fact I feel pretty great. You know, I don''t think I''ll have to go to bed uptight tonight for the first time since I can''t remember. Maybe I won''t be so tired from now on because I''m not getting enough rest.
YOU''RE NOT THROUGH WITH YOUR PRAYER..GO ON.
Oh, alright.....And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
GOOD...GOOD. I''LL DO THAT. JUST DON''T PUT YOURSELF IN A PLACE WHERE YOU CAN BE TEMPTED.
What do you mean by that?
QUIT HANGING AROUND THE WRONG PLACES, WATCHING INAPPROPRIATE MOVIES AND TELEVISION, LISTENING TO SINFUL CONVERSATIONS; HANGING AROUND THE PLACES WHERE PLAYBOY AND PLAYGIRL ARE SOLD. CHANGE SOME OF YOUR FRIENDSHIPS. SOME OF YOUR SO-CALLED FRIENDS ARE BEGINNING TO GET TO YOU. THEY''LL HAVE YOU COMPLETELY INVOLVED IN WRONG THINGS BEFORE LONG. DON''T BE FOOLED. THEY ADVERTISE THEY''RE HAVING FUN, BUT FOR YOU IT WOULD BE RUIN. DON''T USE ME FOR AN ESCAPE HATCH.
I don''t understand.
SURE YOU DO, YOU''VE DONE IT ..... LOTS OF TIMES. YOU GET CAUGHT IN A BAD SITUATION, YOU GET INTO TROUBLE AND THEN YOU COME RUNNING TO ME. "LORD, HELP ME OUT OF THIS MESS, AND I PROMISE YOU I''LL NEVER DO IT AGAIN." YOU REMEMBER SOME OF THOSE BARGAINS YOU TRIED TO MAKE WITH ME?
Yes, and I''m ashamed Lord. I really am.
WHICH BARGAINS ARE YOU REMEMBERING?
Well, when the guy next door saw me backing away from the neighborhood bar.. I told my wife I was going to the store.. I remember telling you, "Lord don''t let him tell her where I''ve been. I promise I''ll be in church every Sunday."
HE DIDN''T TELL YOUR WIFE, BUT YOU DIDN''T KEEP YOUR PROMISE, DID YOU?
I''m sorry Lord, I really am. Up until now I thought if I just prayed the Lord''s prayer everyday, then I could do what I liked. I didn''t expect anything to happen like it did.
GO AHEAD. FINISH YOUR PRAYER.
Oh yes....For Thine is the kingdom and the power, and the glory forever and ever. Amen.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD BRING ME GLORY? WHAT WOULD MAKE ME REALLY HAPPY?
No, but I''d like to know. I want to please you. I can see what a mess I''ve made out of my life, and I can see how great it would be to really be one of your followers.
YOU JUST ANSWERED THE QUESTION.
I did?
YES, THE ONE THING THAT WOULD BRING ME GLORY IS TO HAVE PEOPLE LIKE YOU TRULY LOVE ME. AND I CAN SEE THAT HAPPENING BETWEEN US. NOW THAT SOME OF THESE OLD SINS ARE EXPOSED AND OUT OF THE WAY... WELL, THERE''S NO TELLING WHAT WE CAN DO TOGETHER.
Lord, let''s see what we can make of me, OK?
YES, LET''S SEE.
One Step Closer

THE PARADOX OF OUR AGE
We have taller buildings, but shorter tempers
We have wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints
We spend more, but have less
We buy more, but enjoy less
We have bigger houses, but smaller families
We have more conveniences, but less time
We have more degrees, but less sense
We have more knowledge, but less judgment
We have more experts, but fewer solutions,
We have more medicines, but less well-being
We have infinite ends, but limited means
We spend so recklessly, laugh so little, drive so fast
get angry so quickly, stay up too late, get up too tired
read seldom, watch TV too much, and Pray Too Seldom
We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values
We talk too much, love too seldom and lie too often
We''ve learned how to make a living, but not a life
We have added years to life, not life to years
We have been all the way to the moon and back,
but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor
We''ve conquered outer space, but not inner space
We have done larger things, but not better things
We''ve cleaned up the air, but polluted the souls
We''ve split the atom, but not our prejudice
We write more, but learn less
We plan more, but accomplish less
We have learned to rush, but not to wait
We have higher incomes, but lesser earnings
We have more food, but less satisfaction
We have more acquaintances, but fewer friends
We do more efforts, but succeed less
We are long on Quantity, short on Quality
We act smart, instead of being smart
We have fancier houses, but broken homes
These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare
more leisure and less fun;
more kinds of food, but less nutrition.
This is a time when there is much in the show window,
and nothing in the stockroom.
What a life if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare
One Step Closer

Pappy
Pappy was a pleasant-looking old fellow. He had the whitest hair which he kept neatly cut and combed. His eyes were blue, though faded with age, and they seemed to emit a warmth from within. His face was quite drawn, but when he smiled, even his wrinkles seemed to soften and smile with him. He had a talent for whistling and did so happily each day as he dusted and swept his pawnshop; even so, he had a secret sadness, but everyone who knew him respected and adored him.
Most of Pappy''s customers returned for their goods, and he did not do much business, but he did not mind. To him, the shop was not a livelihood as much as a welcome pastime. There was a room in the back of his shop where he spent time tinkering with a menagerie of his own precious items. He referred to this back room as â?~Memory Hall.'' In it were pocket watches, clocks, and electric trains. There were miniature steam engines and antique toys made of wood, tin, or cast iron, and there were various other obsolete trinkets as well. Spending time in â?~Memory Hall'' delighted him as he recalled many treasured moments from his past. He handled each item with care, and sometimes he would close his eyes and pause to relive a sweet, simple childhood memory.
One day, Pappy was working to his heart''s content reassembling an old railroad lantern. As he worked, he whistled the melody of a railroad tune and reminisced about his own past as a switchman. It was a typical day at the shop. Outside, the Sun illuminated the clear sky, and a slight wind passed through the front screen door. Whenever the weather was this nice, Pappy kept the inner-door open. He enjoyed the fresh air--almost as much as the distinctive smell of antiques and old engine oil.
As he was polishing his newly restored lantern, he heard the tinkling of his bell on the shop door. The bell, which produced a uniquely charming sound, had been in Pappy''s family for over a hundred years. He cherished it dearly and enjoyed sharing its song with all who came to his shop. Although the bell hung on the inside of the main door, Pappy had strung a wire to the screen door so that it would ring whether the inner door was open or not.
Prompted by the bell, he left â?~Memory Hall'' to greet his customer. At first, he did not see her. Her shiny, soft curls barely topped the counter. "And how can I help you, little lady?" Pappy''s voice was jovial.
"Hello, sir." The little girl spoke almost in a whisper. She was dainty. Bashful. Innocent. She looked at Pappy with her big brown eyes, then slowly scanned the room in search of something special. Shyly she told him, "I''d like to buy a present, sir."
"Well, let''s see," Pappy said, "who is this present for?"
"My Grandpa. It''s for my Grandpa. But I don''t know what to get."
Pappy began to make suggestions. "How about a pocket watch? It''s in good con***ion. I fixed it myself," he said proudly. The little girl didn''t answer. She had walked to the doorway and put her small hand on the door. She wiggled the door gently to ring the bell. Pappy''s face seemed to glow as he saw her smiling with excitement. "This is just right," the little girl bubbled. "Momma says Grandpa loves music."
Just then, Pappy''s expression changed. Fearful of breaking the little girl''s heart, he told her, "I''m sorry, missy. That''s not for sale. Maybe your Grandpa would like this little radio." The little girl looked at the radio, lowered her head, and sadly sighed, "No, I don''t think so." In an effort to help her understand, Pappy told her the story of how the bell had been in his family for so many years, and that was why he didn''t want to sell it.
The little girl looked up at him, and with a giant tear in her eye, sweetly said, "I guess I understand. Thank you, anyway." Suddenly, Pappy thought of how the rest of the family was all gone now, except for his estranged daughter whom he had not seen in nearly a decade. Why not, he thought. Why not pass it on to someone who will share it with a loved one? God only knows where it will end up anyway.
"Wait . . . little lady." Pappy spoke just as the little girl was going out the door--just as he was hearing his bell ring for the last time. "I''ve decided to sell the bell. Here''s a hanky. Blow your nose." The little girl began to clap her hands. "Oh, thank you, sir. Grandpa will be so happy."
"Okay, little lady. Okay." Pappy felt good about helping the child; he knew, however, he would miss the bell. "You must promise to take good care of the bell for your Grandpa--and for me, too, okay?" He carefully placed the bell in a brown paper bag.
"Oh, I promise," said the little girl. Then, she suddenly became very still and quiet. There was something she had forgotten to ask. She looked up at Pappy with great concern, and again almost in a whisper, asked, "How much will it cost?"
"Well, let''s see. How much have you got to spend?" Pappy asked with a grin. The child pulled a small coin purse from her pocket then reached up and emptied two dollars and forty-seven cents onto the counter. After briefly questioning his own sanity, Pappy said, "Little lady, this is your lucky day. That bell costs exactly two dollars and forty-seven cents." Later that evening as Pappy prepared to close up shop, he found himself thinking about his bell. Already he had decided not to put up another one.
He thought about the child and wondered if her Grandpa like his gift. Surely he would cherish anything from such a precious grandchild. At that moment, just as he was going to turn off the light in â?~Memory Hall,'' Pappy thought he heard his bell. Again, he questioned his sanity; he turned toward the door, and there stood the little girl. She was ringing the bell and smiling sweetly. Pappy was puzzled as he strolled toward the small child.
"What''s this, little lady? Have you changed your mind?" "No," she grinned. "Momma says it''s for you."
Before Pappy had time to say another word, the child''s mother stepped into the doorway, and choking back a tear, she gently said, ""Hello, Dad." The little girl tugged on her Grandpa''s shirttail.
"Here, Grandpa. Here''s your hanky. Blow your nose."
One Step Closer

Paint Brush
I keep my paint brush with me
Wherever I may go,
In case I need to cover up
So the real me doesn''t show.
I''m so afraid to show you me,
Afraid of what you''ll do - that
You might laugh or say mean things.
I''m afraid I might lose you.
I''d like to remove all my paint coats
To show you the real, true me,
But I want you to try and understand,
I need you to accept what you see.
So if you''ll be patient and close your eyes,
I''ll strip off all my coats real slow.
Please understand how much it hurts
To let the real me show.
Now my coats are all stripped off.
I feel naked, bare and cold,
And if you still love me with all that you see,
You are my friend, pure as gold.
I need to save my paint brush, though,
And hold it in my hand,
I want to keep it handy
In case someone doesn''t understand.
So please protect me, my dear friend
And thanks for loving me true,
But please let me keep my paint brush with me
Until I love me, too.
By Davd, Wizard of Oz
One Step Closer