Tui xin một cái topic nhé....

MY GREATEST LESSON
by Candy Chand
A few years ago, when a true story I'd written about my son, Nicholas,
titled Christmas Love, was publshed in Heartwarmers, I looked forward to
sharing my miracle with others.
After all, it was a joyous holiday season. I wanted to give
something, without charge, as a present to strangers everywhere.
Within hours of publication, I was blessed by an overwhelming
response. Forward after forward it was sent. I was thrilled to receive
lovely greetings from individuals across the United States and as far away
as Europe, the Middle East, and Africa. As a writer, I was honored. As a
person wishing to spread joy at Christmas time, I was humbled.
Then, suddenly, everything began to spin out of control. A few
readers deleted my byline. Before long, Christmas Love was being forwarded
as an anonymous story. Realizing I didn't have control over the delete
button of thousands of emailers, I turned it over to God.
Until one night, when I'd just about had enough. Exhausted and
annoyed, I emailed the webmaster of a site who'd omitted the author's
cre***. I tried to sound tough (which I'm not) so I told her it was
nothing short of stealing to place it online, then forward it to thousands
of her subscribers without first doing a proper check on the author. I
angrily signed my name, hit send, and went to bed.
The next morning, I woke up to over 100 new emails. "Great, more fan
mail," I thought. But as I began to open them up, it hit me. This wasn't
fan mail at all, but angry, furious, hate mail.
As I pieced two and two together, I realized, in her frustration,
she'd sent out my email to all her subscribers. And, let me tell you,
several came after me with a vengeance. At first, I felt defensive. After
all, I wasn't the person who did something wrong!
But, as time went on, I knew better. Yes, there was no doubt about
it, I was wrong too -- not in my premise, but in my tone. By responding in
anger, before giving her a chance to correct the situation, I put everyone
on the defense. And she chose to teach me a lesson. As much as it hurt, I
must admit, I deserved it. It was a painful experience, but one that's
taught me well.
Person after person expressed my original story touched their soul,
but my follow-up email canceled out all the prior good. How could the
woman who shared such a tender story also write such angry, rude words?
Clearly, they had me on a pedestal, and I'd fallen off. Wasn't I supposed
to be more spiritual than that? (My family, by the way, laughs at the
thought)
I was devastated. I cried nonstop. I didn't eat. I hardly slept. I
felt the whole world hated me. And, to make matters worse, I knew I'd hurt
thousands of people, which was far from my original desire to share a
heartfelt miracle.
One by one, I emailed each individual an apology. I felt I owed
everyone that much. Much to my amazement, most responded with kindness,
offering forgiveness, even including their own apology for what they'd
written to me. They now understood first hand, how easy it is to get
angry, write a nasty email, and hit send before thinking it through. They
were sorry. I was sorry. Everybody was sorry. Lots of tears flowed from
the USA, to France and as far away as Nigeria.
What did I learn, you ask? Words can be a blessing or a curse. The
decision is ours.
And now? Christmas Love continues to circulate, especially over the
holidays. When it appears without the author's cre***, I send a polite
note asking for a byline. And much to my surprise, everyone's been more
than agreeable.
Yes, one simple story taught me the greatest lesson of all --
animosity will spread like wildfire, but love and kindness will bless the
entire world.
-- Candy Chand <patcan85 @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

Thanks, gio_mua_dong for sharing this story. Hope that whenever I get angry or lose control, I'll remember your story. Thanks

FORCE DISTURBANCE
by Sandra Johnson
My dog Violet (she looks more like an Oreo cookie than a violet)
always sleeps on my bed with me.
The only time she gets off the bed at night is when she hears
something or someone outside. She is very protective. Consequently, her
nocturnal forays are so seldom that it always wakes me up when she does
leave the bed.
Now the standard procedure is that she gets down, goes to the window,
looks outside to see what is there, growls or lightly barks for a bit until
she is certain that the area is again secured, then she returns to her
place on the bed and we go back to sleep (she has me programmed).
So, on Wednesday night, March 26, 2003, at about 11:30pm, when I was
awakened by Violet suddenly jumping off of the bed, I merely waited for her
to perform her regular guard duty and return.
After a time, however, I realized that I had not heard a sound out of
her, nor had she returned to the bed. So, I turned the light on and got up
to check on her. I was very surprised to find that she was not in her
usual spot at the window and began calling to her as I searched the house.
When I finally located her, she was huddled at the edge of the far
corner of the bed against the night stand. Had she not been too chunky to
fit, she would have no doubt been under the bed. She was cowering and
trembling, and no amount of coaxing on my part could convince her to leave
her hiding place and return with me to bed.
I was completely baffled. Violet is never afraid of anything and is
always ready to protect me and our home. She continued to cower although I
never saw or heard anything to cause her to behave in such a manner.
Finally, I simply left her there and went back to bed.
The next morning, while preparing for work, I heard on the news that a
meteorite had passed over our area in the night. The report had it
touching Earth at about midnight, and I suddenly understood Violet's
behavior.
According to CNN's report, upon entering the Earth's atmosphere, the
meteorite was approximately the size of a Volkswagen car -- large enough to
create a disturbance in the "force" that animals sense.
She must have thought I had lost my mind trying to get her to come out
of hiding when the possibility of being killed by the object falling to
earth loomed so near.
In the future, when Violet takes cover, you can be assured that her
"Mama" will be right there with her.
-- Sandra Johnson <sjohnson211 @ netzero.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FUNNY THINGS KIDS SAY
Joshua, 7, was riding home from school with his dad when he asked,
"Dad, will winter be gone when the Easterhog sees his shadow?" -- Charlene
Woodward (grandmother of Joshua) of Knoxville, Tennessee
When Timmie, 5, took a bite out of his Easter Bunny his eyes got wide.
"Mommy," he exclaimed, "there's a secret hole in my bunny!" His chocolate
bunny was hollow. -- Cheryl (mother of Timmie) of Monroe, Ohio
Dakota was in church for Easter with his family. They had already
disrupted the church by arriving late because there was a daylight saving
time change the night before that they had forgotten. The four kids piled
into the back of the church, trying to be quiet. When the communion plate
was passed, Dakota took a piece... then he yelled, "Bring that back here.
I want a bigger piece!" -- Cynthia Janes (aunt of Dakota) of West
Bridgewater, Massachusetts
It was an exceptionally warm winter day and Blake, 6, came inside for
a drink of water. His grandmother said, "Blake, you have played so long in
the sun, you have got a suntan." Blake replied, "Yes, I know, and when I
am in bed at night, sometimes I push my covers all back and I get a
moontan!" -- Joan Henry of Sulphur Springs, Texas
Evan, 6, just started playing soccer. He had never played before.
After his first game, his grandmother asked him how he liked soccer. He
said it was "hard work" but he liked "playing over the fence" the best.
The family tried for several minutes to figure out what he was talking
about and then all of a sudden they realized he meant "offense!" -- Karen
Hope (aunt of Evan) of Louisville, Kentucky
Levi, 4, wanted to go outside and play with older brother Greg. His
mother Jennifer told him that in order to go out and play, he needed to
help pick up toys. Then Jennifer picked up the play gym. Levi saw this
and said, "Mom, you have my brain!" (He meant, "You were reading my mind!)
-- Jennifer Pulver (mother of Greg, Levi and Athena) of Avilla, Indiana
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

MY ONLY PROTECTOR
by Anonymous
I was only five years old when ***ual and physical abuse began in my life.
Two older brothers, and my father, were all involved at one point or
another until I was nearly 17 years old.
When I was in 8th grade, we acquired a family dog -- a dachie.
I loved that dog dearly, and soon he became "my dog". The stairs in
our old farmhouse curved and went up steeply, and each night, "Spook" would
wait patiently for me on the 5th step until my homework was done. Then I'd
carry him the rest of the way up, and plop him down. He'd zip down the
hall to my bedroom, make a flying leap on my bed, and we'd snuggle in for
the night.
My older brother, very abusive to me, would sometimes try to "dognap"
him to his room. He'd go upstairs earlier, and take the dog with him. I
would wait until I was sure my brother was asleep, creep down the hall,
unhook the leash he used to tie him to his bed, and Spook and I would race
back to my room, my heart beating wildly.
We'd jump on the bed, Spook would climb on my lap, and my brother
would be on his way, very angry. But he couldn't touch me, or the dog.
Spook would growl and snap at him as he tried to hit us, and for once
my brother was afraid. That dog was my only protector in that family. He
was my friend, and his coat absorbed many a tear.
Eventually, Spook had to be put to sleep after many years. I didn't
even go to the vet to see him off, and have felt badly about that ever
since.
And I certainly never thought about Spook being with Jesus, but if
ever a dog was put on this earth by God as a gift to a little girl, Spook
was it.
And so it seems very fitting to see him in this picture. The picture
looks so much like him -- he was heavy, and large for a dachie. Many of
them are small, miniature.
I think he was so large because he had so much heart in him, and so
much comfort to give me. While the emotions this picture brings up are
painful, and the tears are falling, there is such a joy in focusing on the
thought of Spook in a good place.
I've always figured animals had to go to heaven, too, because they
bring such comfort to so many! And I can't imagine heaven without them.
-- Anonymous
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

Hey, gio_mua_dong, your story reminds me of my puppy . I used to be close to him until I discovered .............men . The latter also bark and bite , but their barking and biting are ......................sweet

HAUNTING ME
by Joseph Walker
To the frightened boy I saw in the news photograph:
Please forgive me for writing to you this way. I know it's sort of
cold and impersonal. There isn't much of a chance that you will ever see
this. But it's the only way I know to try to reach you, and to tell you
that... well, I don't even know what to tell you.
I saw your photograph on the Internet this evening. You were sitting
there in Baghdad with your parents -- at least, I assume them to be your
parents. With all my heart, I hope they are your parents. They look
concerned and angry.
I can understand that.
I would be concerned and angry too if the city in which I live was
being systematically destroyed. But it is the look in your young eyes that
is haunting me tonight. You can't be more than 11 -- the same age as my
son, Jon, who is sleeping safely upstairs in his bed as I write this. But
those eyes have seen things during the past few weeks that no child's eyes
ought to see. And I can see that it is wearing on you.
The redness of your eyes, and the unmistakable look of fear as you
peer directly into the camera has forced me to try to reach out to you --
somehow, some way. I wish I could explain why all of this is happening to
you and to your family. Then again, maybe it's just as well that we don't
even go there.
No matter what I say, it can't explain the near-constant pounding of
the bombardment you have already endured, or the pain of loved ones lost,
or the terror of not knowing from one moment to the next what the future
will hold for you, your family and your country.
I guess the only thing we can say is we both live in countries where
those who are in charge make certain decisions, and those decisions
sometimes have a way of making life miserable for innocent people who had
absolutely nothing to do with making them. So the leaders of your country
have made decisions and the leaders of my country have made decisions, and
the result of all those decisions is a bunch of bombs dropping on your city
and changing your life forever.
There are those around the world who think that those changes will
ultimately be for your good. That's probably sort of difficult to imagine
at this point, and I'm pretty sure that thought doesn't give you much
comfort. Promises of a better "someday" don't mean much when "today" is
filled with the sights, sounds and smells of war. Especially when those
promises are coming from the same people who are bombing the life out of
you.
My guess is you've been told that we're pretty awful over on this side
of the world. From the look in your eyes I'm thinking that would be hard
to dispute. And to a certain extent, it's true. There are people here who
are capable of horrifying things. There are people like that in your
country, too, unfortunately. You probably already know that.
But just as there are wonderful people who you know and love all
around you, there are also people here who are capable of great goodness --
caring, compassionate people who will do everything in their power to help
you and your family get back on your feet once all of this is over. Of
course, I don't expect you to believe that. Not right now, anyway.
But maybe you can tuck away in the back of your mind the hope that
even if all of this fighting ends badly for the people who have been
running your country, it may not turn out to be such a bad thing for you.
Freedom -- real freedom -- is often painfully won. But it can be an
incredible thing for those who are prepared to use it properly. I pray
that it may be so for you and for your family.
That's the only way any of this makes sense. And that's the only way
the look in your eyes stops haunting me.
-- Joseph Walker <valuespeak @ earthlink.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

HEALING BY EMAIL
by Cheryl Browder Speir
Sitting down at my computer, I opened my email program.
I couldn't help but sigh when I saw that my filter had flagged 67
messages as possible spam. My finger hovered over the delete button, when
a subject line jumped out at me:
"You have received a message from James" it declared.
The sender was an online site that advertises getting people together.
I had signed up years ago and forgot about it. Periodically the site
emails me updates and encourages me to upgrade my status.
This is an unusual way to get me to open their email I thought, as my
finger got closer to the button. They must have peeked and found that
lately I was deleting their messages without looking.
My hand stopped. What if there really is a message?
OK, I'm going to open it, but I know I'm going to end up feeling foolish.
I opened the email and found I had to go to their site. Once there, I
had to login. Goodness, it had been so long I had to search my brain
trying to remember my password. Finally I was in.
There really was a message.
"Are you the Cheryl Browder who lived in the Masonic Home For Children
in Alexandria, Louisiana? Do you have brothers named Wade and Alan? If
so, I lived there at the same time 30 years ago. I can't believe I found
you!" the message read.
I was stunned! This was an episode of my life I didn't talk much
about. I didn't try to hide it -- I just had mixed emotions.
The Home accepted children whose parents were going through financial
or physical hardships. Whole families of children would be admitted, and
then, broken up according to age and gender. For nearly two years, I
hardly ever saw my 5 younger siblings.
We were only allowed to watch television on weekends, which left me at
a great disadvantage in my Social Studies current events discussions. We
received an allowance but were never able to go anywhere to spend it.
Every day the teen girls had to work in the kitchen taking turns
preparing meals for over 60 people and cleaning up afterwards. We attended
public school but were not able to take part in after school activities.
The mothers of the boys we went to school with wouldn't allow their sons to
date us because we lived in an institution and were looked upon as "bad"
girls.
Then there was the horror of one of my younger siblings being abused.
The housemother was promptly dismissed, but it left us feeling helpless and
at the mercy of a cruel world.
For years I had thrown the memories to the back of my mind, never
allowing myself to dwell on them.
As I read James' message, his excitement jumped out at me. Instead of
the negative emotions coming forth, flashes of other memories came forward.
I remembered all the teen girls standing at the sinks and dishwasher,
laughing, joking, and singing the popular songs of the early seventies.
Getting together at night we rolled each other's hair. I remembered
watching Anna practicing dance steps in the hallway and my sneaking out
with Janet to climb on the roof to watch a fireworks display going on down
the street. I shared secrets and dreams with Kathy and listened as Emma
read poetry or short passages out loud. There were the times the teen boys
brought me tiny baby rabbits they had found while mowing. Shyly they would
whisper, "I thought you could take care of this until it was old enough to
take care of itself." Above all, I thought of the time we girls secretly
pierced our ears ourselves while our housemother slept.
The memories came faster and faster. Suddenly, I am filled with a
longing to reach out and connect with someone who was part of my extended
family from that time.
I hit the reply button and write, "Yes James, I am Cheryl Browder. I
am so happy to hear from you."
And I meant it with all my heart.
-- Cheryl Browder Speir <cheryl @ write2theheart.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

AUGIE DOGGIE
by Geraldine Wierzbicki-Roach
I love animals, but I had more than the usual feelings for Augie
Doggie, my son's Labrador, when we first met.
I saw love and loyalty in his large brown eyes. My instinct was later
confirmed.
When my son's third child was born, he and his family were moving into
a new home. I welcomed the chance to spend time with the new baby and
Sophie and Gerald, my other grandchildren, who were 3 and 2.
We now know what we didn't know for the first years of Sophie's life
-- she suffers from autism.
From the beginning, it was evident she and Augie had a special
relationship. They still do. Sophie's favorite toy is her doctor's set
and Augie is always patient as he has his blood pressure taken and his
imaginary injuries bandaged.
I remember the activity in the house that first day -- the moving
vans, the furniture being carried, the call of directions. Behind the new
house was a wooded area -- stands of trees penetrated by sunlight and
containing a paddock for horses.
Armed with carrots for the horses, the children were happy to leave
the bustle for a walk through the woods with grandma.
As always, Augie accompanied us. Although he ran ahead, he waited for
us to catch up, and barked at anything threatening, like squirrels. The
children looked under rocks and uprooted trees, and shared their
discoveries. We happened upon a small stream where the activity of choice
became throwing stones into the water. Augie retrieved stones, splashed
and sniffed and generally became covered with mud.
Suddenly, Gerald stumbled into the half-inch of barely moving water
and began to howl. I turned to rescue him and when I turned back, Sophie
and Augie were gone. Dragging Gerald behind me, I hunted frantically along
the paths we had traveled, but there was no sign of Sophie or Augie.
My daughter-in-law and I combed the woods to no avail, and then she
phoned my son.
An autistic child lacks normal fear. I don't know why Sophie ran
away, but she ran through the woods until she reached the highway, and
began walking on the side of the busy road.
Augie was with her every step of the way. Witnesses said he was
"clipped" in the rear by cars, but wouldn't leave Sophie's side or move out
of the way of traffic. Motorists stopped to help, but Sophie wouldn't
respond. Even if she had, she didn't know where she lived.
The police investigation led to the mailman, who knew the address of a
new family in the neighborhood. Sophie was transported home in a police
car. Augie, I guess, found his own way home.
Neighborhood newspapers reported on the dog who protected a small girl
despite danger to himself.
Augie's life is difficult now. He has arthritis, difficulty raising
his hindquarters and moves slowly. The bittersweet truth of life's ending
will have to be faced. Augie will not be there to run through the woods
and splash in the water, to warn us of dangerous squirrels, or, the
greatest loss, to love a little girl who finds something in him, as he does
in her, that the less initiated of us do not understand.
I am reminded of a poem by Francis Jammes:
Oh God, my master, should I gain the grace
To see you face to face when life is ended,
Grant that a little dog, who once pretended
That I was God, may see me face to face.
Augie Doggie is not a "little" dog. His body is big. But in no
measure as big as his heart.
-- Geraldine Wierzbicki-Roach <wierwriter @ earthlink.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

GRANDPA X
by T. Suzanne Eller
I bumped up and down on the cloth and vinyl seat of the immaculate but
ancient Chevy, pinned between two cousins.
Grandpa clutched the wheel. We followed him into the small grocery
store, hoping to receive candy. We hadn't been too good that day so the
chances were slim, but you could always hope.
Grandpa picked up several items and placed them on the counter. We
stood behind, tiptoeing to see if candy was hidden among the goods.
Grandpa turned and I flashed a smile guaranteed to buy at least a gumball.
How could he resist my toothy grin? He grinned back, wise to my ways.
The clerk added up the total and Grandpa did a slight of hand.
Somehow three pieces of candy miraculously appeared. The clerk frowned and
added the extra items while we danced in delight. Seems even ornery kids
get a break every once in a while.
The girl called out the total. Grandpa told her it would be on
cre***. The clerk was new and obviously didn't know Grandpa though he had
been coming to this same country store for 20 years. She pulled out a slip
of paper, chewing a fingernail idly as she pushed the paper in front of
Grandpa.
"Sign here," she said.
Grandpa took the stubby pencil and carefully marked an "X" on the
dotted line.
"You're supposed to sign your name," she said.
My Grandpa's full name was Carmie Menuard Morrison. I stared at the
"X". I started to remind him of his name when the clerk arched an eyebrow
and said, "Can't you write?"
Grandpa shuffled his feet. He was a tall man, thin with sandy blond
hair and piercing blue eyes. I hadn't seen him shuffle before, especially
in front of a nail-biting pimple-faced teenaged girl.
"I can't read nor write," he said. "I've always signed with an X."
I watched as a proud self-sufficient man -- a man who put venison on
the table, in season and I have to say, out of season. A man who built a
small home and kept it neat. A man who lost two fingers cutting timber
when he was younger. A man who looked a whole lot like Festus on Gunsmoke
when he squinted his eyes and told us to "ye better git on outta here". He
was a mean hand with a broom, daring dirt to come into his house. He was a
lot more than a simple "X" and I wanted to tell the clerk that, but Grandpa
was still shuffling. I could see he wanted nothing more to get out of
there.
I wasn't sure what happened, but somewhere deep inside of Grandpa had
been pricked. I snuggled close to him and broke my Hershey's bar in half
and held up the rich chocolate.
"Want some?" I asked. He took it and bit into it. In spite of his
smile, the sadness in his eyes said that chocolate wouldn't make the pain
go away.
Grandpa is no longer with us, but if I could talk to him today I would
tell him that he wasn't alone. Fifty million Americans cannot read or
comprehend above the eighth grade level.
My Grandpa was never simply "Grandpa X". He just didn't know how to
read and he thought it was too late in life for him to start.
I think about the places he never visited. Have you thought about how
difficult it would be to navigate traffic and to travel across state lines
if you couldn't read a map or road signs? I think about the books he never
read. I never understood why Grandpa's house had no books except for the
family Bible until that day in the store.
What I would want to tell Grandpa more than anything, if I could speak
to him today, is that it's not too late. I'd tell him that there are
programs and people willing to help him learn to read.
But the most important thing I'd say is that whether he could read or
not, that he was never just Grandpa "X" to me.
-- T. Suzanne Eller <eller @ intellex.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .