Wisdom Inspirations

Million Dollar Smile

2008-10-06T14:47:00.000+07:00

Each year this organization of men came to the Children's Home Society Orphanage.

All the boys and girls would get two dollars each. The men would take us in groups of five to downtown Jacksonville, Florida, to do some Christmas shopping.

I remember going with this one gentleman three years in a row. He would take us shopping, then he would ask us if we wanted to go to the movies. I remember watching him closely when we got to the theater. I watched him as he pulled out his wallet to pay for our tickets. He looked over at me and just smiled with his great big smile. During the movie he bought us all the popcorn and candy that we wanted. I remember thinking how wonderful it was that someone would spend their own money on someone like us.

We all laughed at the funny movie and had a really good time. The man would laugh really hard and then he would pat me on top of the head. Then he would laugh really hard again and reach over and rustle my hair. I would just look at him, and he would just keep smiling with his great big wonderful smile.

That trip to the movies was the first time in my life that I ever felt as if someone really cared about me. It was a wonderful feeling which I have never forgotten, even to this day, decades later. I don't know if that man felt sorry for me, but I do know this: If I ever win the big lottery, that man will find out that he carried a million-dollar smile.

This is why I believe it is so important that organizations and clubs, such as the Shriners and Jaycees, continue to reach out and help the children who are less fortunate. In my particular case, it was this one man's personal act of kindness that will be remembered for years to come. Just one little simple act of kindness.

It is these little-tiny acts that will insure that when some confused child goes off the deep end one day, he or she will forever remember that small glimmer of kindness that was shown to them by someone. That little speck of hope, that little dim light of goodness that will forever be stuck somewhere in the far reaches of their confused mind.

I thank you, kind Sir, for a memory which I now share with my children and grandchildren fifty years later.

Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.

Finding Center

2008-10-04T09:23:00.001+07:00

As the yellow corn pollen fell to the New Mexico earth, the words of the medicine man whispered clearly in my mind, "Bless the place that we chose, for it is the center of all that is to be." Prayerfully, I stood on that place and drank in the beauty and significance of this moment. The late afternoon sun wrapped the August rain columns with a golden cloak that swept cool mist over the high-desert mountains. This pristine valley, that stretched and rolled before me, would now be home to a new purpose.

The cool breeze filled my senses, bringing the scent of the coming rain. As I breathed in the fragrance, my heart stirred with gratitude in recognition of the honor that was being bestowed on this land. Oso Vista Ranch had been chosen to host the building of a traditional Navajo spiritual dwelling, called a Hogan.

The potency of this honor began to reveal itself when, earlier that day, a Navajo Hogan builder handed me a hammer and stake explaining that a Hogan is built from the center out. "When you find the center," he said, "mark that spot and then we will begin." My spirit swooned with the metaphorical perfection of this gentle command.

To find that center, I had stood in spiritual partnership with my dear friend Howard, Navajo medicine man from the Sleeping Rock clan, born for the Mexican clan. I waited patiently as he chose the spot that would not only be the physical center but also the spiritual center of this traditional Navajo Hogan.

This would be a female Hogan: eight-sided, log walls with a single door to the east, no windows and a domed ceiling with a smoke hole in the center. Structures such as these have been the center of Navajo family and spiritual life for hundreds of years.

A female Hogan's walls, being nine logs high, symbolize the nine months of pregnancy and its corner logs, notched together, represent a woman's hands, fingers intertwined over her expectant belly. Every aspect of its shape, construction, dedication, interior and the manner that one moves within it, has significance. It embodies the heart and soul of the Navajo people. The most powerful place in this Hogan is the center. It is in the center that all healing takes place.

The powerful richness that this experience has brought to my work as a purpose coach and consultant to Bob Proctor's programs has been profound. It has strengthened my understanding that the spiritual center to our lives, the place from which we must build and in which all healing takes place, is our life purpose.

The discovery and expression of our purpose is why we are here. Living it brings meaning and fulfillment like we have never before experienced. Every aspect of our lives and every project that we choose will breathe with new joy when we find that center.

As I watch Oso Vista Ranch emerge as a Navajo cultural and spiritual healing center for the Ramah Navajo community and the people of the world, I realize just how much of my purpose is expressed through this project. Culture, family, healing, personal growth, purposeful living and service are my passions. I value them above all other things.

Building a project based on these values has given my life immeasurable joy and meaning. It is an experience that has caused a Renaissance in my soul. I am, more than any other time in my life, completely fulfilled.

I've found that shifting my life to the foundation of purpose has filled every void and healed every wound. It has added a depth, richness and bliss to my life that can me achieved only by creating alignment between my life's work, my divine essence and my connection to the Source of all that is.

As our lives touch for this brief moment, I pass the hammer and stake to you and say earnestly, "Find your center and build from there."

Margaret Merrill

Margaret is a success coach and author.

The Happiest Day Of My Life

2008-10-02T22:10:00.002+07:00

It started innocently.

Many years ago I worked in an office with large windows facing a busy overpass. I was standing by one of those windows one day when a woman in a passing car looked up and made eye contact. Naturally, I waved.

A chuckle escaped my lips as she turned and tried to identify me. It was the beginning of a year of window antics. When things were slow, I would stand in the window and wave at the passengers who looked up. The strange looks made me laugh and stress was washed away.

Co-workers began to take an interest. They would stand from view, watch the reactions I received, and laugh along.

Late afternoon was the best time - rush hour traffic filled the overpass with cars and transit buses, and providing lots of waving material for the end-of-day routine. It didn't take long to attract a following - a group of commuters who passed the window every day and looked up at the strange waving man.

There was a man with a construction truck who would turn on his flashing-yellow light and return my wave, the carpool crowd, and the business lady with her children fresh from day care. But my favorite was the transit bus from the docks that passed my window at 4:40pm. It carried the same group every day, and they became by biggest fans.

After a while, waving became boring, so I devised ways to enhance my act. I made signs: "Hi," "Hello," "Be Happy!" and posted them in the window and waved. I stood on the window ledge in various poses, created hats from paper and file-folders, made faces, played peek-a-boo by bouncing up from below the window ledge, stuck out my tongue, tossed paper planes in the air, and once went into the walkway over the street and danced while co-workers pointed to let my fans know I was there.

Christmas approached, and job cuts were announced. Several co-workers would lose their jobs, and everyone was feeling low. Stress in the office reached a high. A miracle was needed to repair the damage caused by the announcements.

While working a night shift, a red lab jacket attracted my attention. I picked it up and turned it in my hands. In a back corner where packing material was kept, I used my imagination and cut thin, white sheets of cloth-like foam into trips and taped them around the cuffs and collar, down the front, and around the hem. A box of foam packing and strips of tape became Santa's beard and when taped to the hat, slipped over my head in one piece.

The next working day I hid from my co-workers, slipped into the costume, walked bravely to my desk, sat down, held my belly, and mocked Santa's chuckle, as they gathered around me laughing. It was the first time I had seen them smile in weeks. Later my supervisor walked through the door. He took three steps, looked up, saw me, paused, shook his head, turned and left.

I feared trouble. The phone on the desk rung a few moments later, "Mike, can you come to my office please?" I shuffled down the hall, the foam beard swishing across my chest with each step.

"Come in!" the muffled voice replied to my knock. I entered, and sat down. The foam on the beard creaked, and he looked away from me. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead, the only sound was the hammering of my heart. "Mike..." This was all he managed before he lost his composure, leaned back in his chair, and bellowed with laughter. He held his stomach, and tears formed in his eyes, as I sat silent and confused. When he regained control he said, "Mike, thanks! With the job cuts it has been hard to enjoy the Christmas season. Thanks for the laugh, I needed it."

That evening, and every evening of the Christmas season, I stood proudly in the window and waved to my fans. The bus crowd waved wildly, and the little children smiled at the strange Santa. My heart was full of the season, and for a few minutes each day we could forget the loss of jobs.

I didn't know it then, but a bond was forming between my fans and me. It wasn't until the spring following the Santa act that I discovered how close we had become.

My wife and I were expecting our first child that spring, and I wanted the world to know. Less than a month before the birth I posted a sign in the window, "25 DAYS UNTIL B DAY." My fans passed and shrugged their shoulders. The next day the sign read, "24 DAYS UNTIL B DAY." Each day the number dropped, and the passing people grew more confused.

One day a sign appeared in the bus, "What is B DAY?" I just waved and smiled.

Ten days before the expected date the sign in the window read, "10 DAYS UNTIL BA-- DAY." Still the people wondered. The next day it read, "9 DAYS UNTIL BAB- DAY," then "8 DAYS UNTIL BABY DAY," and my fans finally knew what was happening.

By then, my following had grown to include twenty or thirty different busses and cars. Every night they watched to see if my wife had given birth. Excitement grew as the number decreased. My fans were disappointed when the count reached "zero" without an announcement. The next day the sign read, "BABY DAY 1 DAY LATE," and I pretended to pull out my hair.

Each day the number changed and the interest from passing cars grew. When my wife was fourteen days overdue she went into labor, and the next morning our daughter was born. I left the hospital at 5:30am, screamed my joy into the still morning air and drove home to sleep. I got up at noon, showered, bought cigars, and appeared at my window in time for my fans. My co-workers were ready with a banner posted in the window:

"IT'S A GIRL!"

I wasn't alone that night. My co-workers joined me in celebration. We stood and waved our cigars in the air as every vehicle which passed acknowledged the birth of my daughter. Finally, the bus from the docks made its turn onto the overpass and began to climb the hill. When it drew close, I climbed onto the window ledge and clasped my hands over my head in a victory pose. The bus was directly in front of me when it stopped dead in heavy traffic, and every person on board stood with their hands in the air.

Emotion choked my breathing as I watched the display of celebration for my new daughter. Then it happened: a sign popped up. It filled the windows and stretched half the length of the bus, "CONGRATULATIONS!"

Tears formed in the corners of my eyes as the bus slowly resumed its journey. I stood in silence, as it pulled from view. More fans passed and tooted their horns or flashed their lights to display their happiness, but I hardly noticed them, as I pondered what had just happened.

My daughter had been born fourteen days late. Those people must have carried the sign, unrolled, on the bus for at least two weeks. Everyday they had unrolled it and then rolled it back up.

We all have a clown inside of us. We need to let it free and not be surprised at the magic it can create. For eight months I had made a fool of myself, and those people must have enjoyed the smiles I gave them, because on the happiest day of my life they had shown their appreciation.

It has been more than 18 years since that special time, but on my daughter's birthday I always remember the special gift they gave me.

Michael T. Smith

About 10 years after this event happened a version of the story was printed in a small local newspaper in Halifax, Nova Scotia - where the events occurred. The day it ran the editor had 3 calls from people who were on the bus. You just never know how you can touch the lives of others.

A Radical Approach to Becoming a Great Leader

2008-10-01T22:15:00.001+07:00

Each and every one of us has the opportunity to be a leader at different times of our lives, whether it's a leader in our business, our home or our community. The challenge for many of us is that we don't have the fortitude to step up to the plate to become the type of leader that people trust. This true story below is an inspiration to anybody ready to make real changes in their life.

As a regional manager at a major brokerage firm, Michael had been working on his own leadership skills for several years, but despite his efforts, his retail branch region had been consistently ranked last or second to last in his company's employee opinion survey, and in this rare company where surveys are taken seriously - the results are published and ranked - this was bad news for Michael's career. He was losing his credibility as a manager. Then he had the epiphany.

Even though the surveys specifically reflected the views of front-line branch employees whose lives were affected by their immediate supervisors, Michael assumed that he was the problem, not the supervisors. Just allowing himself that realization was a risky endeavor: suddenly, responsibility rested squarely on Michael's already sore shoulders, the Blame Game was no longer an option, and he launched himself irrevocably into do-or-die mode. Then he cranked up the risk factor one more notch.

He gathered his management team together, stood up in front of the conference room and said, "I'm screwing up; the numbers show it, so I want you to tell me what I'm doing wrong and what I need to do to improve."

"I'm going to leave the room," he went on, "and I'd like you to get very specific and write down your ideas on flip-chart paper. When I come back, we'll talk through each item."

And he walked out.

A half-hour later he came back and knocked on the door. "We're not done yet," they said.

Finally, after ninety minutes, they let him in. All the walls were covered in flip-chart paper: list after list of suggestions for his personal improvement as a human being. He kept his balance, took a deep breath and proceeded to:

Accept What You Hear (And Show It)
Michael knew that his reaction in that moment would make or break the whole exercise, as well as his personal credibility. So he took a radical approach and responded authentically.

"I'm really disappointed," he said, "in myself. I had no idea there'd be so much."

He didn't defend, justify, or make excuses. All he did was ask some questions to make sure he fully understood each item, and they talked together for the next couple of hours. Imagine the intestinal fortitude that Michael needed to keep that conversation going for that long. "And another thing, boss..." was said more than once, I'm sure.

And then, at the end of the day, with rolls of flip chart paper tucked under his arms and a pounding sensation behind his eyes, Michael looked at his team and said two words straight from the heart:

"Thank you."

That night and the next couple of days, Michael told me, were the most difficult of his entire career. He was devastated and overwhelmed by the severity of the feedback and the immense challenge to follow through. He recovered from the initial shock, however, and went on to:

Do Something About It!
Nobody expected Michael to start at the top of list one, item one and start fixing them all. But they saw him try. He proved through his own actions that the session hadn't been a consultant-assigned exercise that he had been forced into tolerating.

The next round of surveys ranked Michael's organization second from the top in the entire company, with jumps of eighty to ninety percent in some measures. That's a radical leap no matter how you look at it, but the funny thing is, the improvement had relatively little to do with Michael's follow-up actions. It had everything to do with his team.

Steve Farber

Steve Farber is the president of Extreme Leadership, Incorporated - an organization devoted to the cultivation and development of Extreme Leaders in the business community. His book, The Radical Leap: A Personal Lesson in Extreme Leadership is a recipient of Fast Company magazine's Readers' Choice Award.

The 333 Story

2008-09-30T23:18:00.001+07:00

I was doing a weekend seminar at the Deerhurst Lodge, north of Toronto. On Friday night a tornado swept through a town north of us called Barrie, killing dozens of people and doing millions of dollars worth of damage. Sunday night, as I was coming home, I stopped the car when I got to Barrie. I got out on the side of the highway and looked around. It was a mess. Everywhere I looked there were smashed houses and cars turned upside down.

That same night Bob Templeton was driving down the same highway. He stopped to look at the disaster just as I had, only his thoughts were different than my own. Bob was the vice-president of Telemedia Communications, which owns a string of radio stations in Ontario and Quebec. He thought there must be something we could do for these people with the radio stations they had.

The following night I was doing another seminar in Toronto. Bob Templeton and Bob Johnson, another vice-president from Telemedia, came in and stood in the back of the room. They shared their conviction that there had to be something they could do for the people in Barrie. After the seminar we went back to Bob's office. He was now committed to the idea of helping the people who had been caught in the tornado.

The following Friday he called all the executives at Telemedia into his office. At the top of a flip chart he wrote three 3's. He said to his executives, "How would you like to raise 3 million dollars 3 days from now in just 3 hours and give the money to the people in Barrie?" There was nothing but silence in the room.

Finally someone said, "Templeton, you're crazy. There is no way we could do that."

Bob said, "Wait a minute. I didn't ask you if we could or even if we should. I just asked you if you'd like to."

They all said, "Sure we'd like to." He then drew a large T underneath the 333. On one side he wrote, "Why we can't." On the other side he wrote, "How we can."

"I'm going to put a big X on the 'Why we can't side.' We're not going to spend any time on the ideas of why we can't. That's of no value. On the other side we're going to write down every idea that we can come up with on how we can. We're not going to leave the room until we figure it out." There was silence again.

Finally, someone said, "We could do a radio show across Canada."

Bob said, "That's a great idea," and wrote it down. Before he had it written, someone said, "You can't do a radio show across Canada. We don't have radio stations across Canada." That was a pretty valid objection. They only had stations in Ontario and Quebec.

Templeton replied, "That's why we can. That stays." But this was a real strong objection because radio stations are not very compatible. They usually don't work together. They are very cutthroat. They fight each other. To get them to work together would be virtually impossible according to the standard way of thinking.

All of a sudden someone said, "You could get Harvey Kirk and Lloyd Robertson, the biggest names in Canadian broadcasting, to anchor the show." (That would be like getting Tom Brokaw and Sam Donaldson to anchor the show. They are anchors on national TV. They are not going to go on radio.) At that point, it was absolutely amazing how fast and furious the creative ideas began to flow.

That was on a Friday. The following Tuesday they had a radiothon. They had fifty radio stations all across the country that agreed to broadcast it. It didn't matter who got the credit as long as the people in Barrie got the money. Harvey Kirk and Lloyd Robertson anchored the show and they succeeded in raising three million dollars in three hours within three business days!

You see, you can do anything if you put your focus on how to do it rather than on why you can't.

Bob Proctor

Bob Proctor is the author of the best selling book "You Were Born Rich." For almost 40 years he has conducted seminars around the world helping people achieve their dreams. He very rarely does open seminars for the public any longer.

My Grandmother Taught Me To Fly

2008-09-29T10:37:00.002+07:00

The phone rang and it was my sister, tearfully sharing the news that Bella had a massive stroke and I needed to get home immediately. My heart was broken, my stomach churned and I was overwhelmed. The backbone of our Italian family was in critical condition and I wanted to see her one more time: my grandmother, Bella.

Grandma Bella played such an important role in my life; every Italian matriarch stereotype was embodied in this beautiful, beautiful lady. She had such a green thumb and her garden produced wonderful tomatoes which we canned every season. She taught me to make sausage using a coveted family recipe, and we played Crazy 8's until the wee hours of the morning more times than I could ever count!

"What do you mean the ticket is $600? I can't afford it. I told you, I have to get to my family NOW. Please help me, please", I told the Delta Airline representative.

Despite tears and my strongest desire to be there, I could not get to my family for three days because the only ticket I could afford required a three day advance purchase. No available credit on my maxed out Visa, no savings, and not an extra dime in the checking account. Sadly, I didn't even have anything of value to pawn, and my pride did not allow me to admit my financial situation and ask my family for a loan.

For three days, I constantly called my family, asking repeatedly, "How is Bella? How is Bella? Tell her that I am coming. Please tell her that I will be there."

I could hardly eat, I was restless, I was crying, and I was devastated that I was stranded in the tropics known as South Florida. The sense of helplessness was greater than I have ever known. My family was in shock and I was a thousand miles away, but it might as well have been a million miles. Finding $600 to reach them immediately was an impossible task. Being alone and realizing my financial situation made matters much worse.

When I finally made it home, my arrival was bittersweet. Bella was out of pain, no longer incapacitated by a stroke. But, I did not have the chance to tell her I loved her, I did not have the opportunity to lay my head by her beating heart, and I could no longer clasp her aged, worn hand safely between mine. She was in heaven now. Tears flowed and I knew in my heart Bella had taught me one more lesson: never ever to be a victim of finances.

After an incredible celebration of Bella's life, I headed to the airport for the lonely flight home. Gazing out the plane window, I looked at the big fluffy clouds fully expecting to see my Bella dancing in the heavens. At this point, I made a commitment to be like Bella: free, beholden to no one, in bondage to nothing.

Paul Martinelli

Although Bella's death was heartbreaking, it spurred Paul to make the biggest decision of his life: the commitment to fly, to soar, to be truly free! And this included being able to reach his family without having to wait three days for a supersaver ticket!

Today, Paul soars by earning a multimillion dollar income. He did this by following his heart...deciding to forgo the opinions of others to teach the principles and techniques of Bob Proctor. Paul uses Bella's final lesson as his reminder to be free, and shares this with others so they, too, can know the inexplicable joy of being beholden to no one or no thing.

If You Can't Say Something Nice

2008-09-26T19:07:00.001+07:00

"Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words will never hurt you." Not so, according to Joseph Telushkin in his profoundly impactful book, Words That Hurt, Words That Heal.

Harsh criticism, snide sarcasm, nasty nicknames, and thoughtless gossip and rumors can inflict deep and lasting harm on individuals and their relationships. Some of the worst and most enduring pains we've suffered were caused by words.

What's more, Telushkin says, most of us say hurtful things about others much more than we realize. He challenges readers to go 24 hours without saying an unkind word to or about anyone. I flunked.

He's particularly down on gossip. Although we justify it as harmless and entertaining chatter, many things we say about others are fundamentally unkind and often unfair. Even worse, as anyone knows who has been the target of someone else's digs, jabs, and judgments, whether the gossip is innocent, insensitive, or malicious, the result is often the same: hurt feelings and damaged reputations and relationships.

Next time you're tempted to say unkind things about another - either to them or behind their back - ask yourself:

* What is the point and purpose? Is there any good that could come of these remarks?
* Could my words create or reinforce negative opinions that could harm or hurt the person I'm talking about?
* Would I be comfortable if the object of my gossip overheard my comments?

Tact, timing, and tone are all important. When we start being more responsible for our words, we realize the wisdom of the old adage: "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Michael Josephson

Your Destiny Switch

2008-09-23T16:45:00.001+07:00

"Knowledge alone is not enough. Only with understanding can real application begin. And that will help bring you to the place you want to be."

This was a true "Aha!" moment. I realized that hearing the insights of all the self-help experts I could find wasn't getting me to wrest control of my life and shape my destiny, because I hadn't internalized their wisdom. I'd written it on sticky notes and in journals, but I wasn't connecting to what they were telling me, so I couldn't truly understand it or apply it to my life. I was too busy congratulating myself for being a seeker of truth to slow down and process what I was taking in. Even the idea that I was in charge of my destiny really hadn't sunk in. Unknowingly, I'd been expecting motivational speakers to do it for me.

As a result of this epiphany, I developed a passion for deeper understanding. I realized that I needed to apply what I'd learned and actually experience the truths that these teachers were imparting to me. I began to think about what they'd taught me about emotions and to look more closely at how I was experiencing my feelings. Why was it so hard for me to stay positive when I knew how important it was to do so? Why did I descend into a pit of anger or self-loathing with such ease? So many things could push my buttons and make me feel negative. Rather than letting my emotions continue to rule my life and imprison me, I decided that it was time for me to search further to figure out why I was at their mercy and what do about it.

Peggy McColl

Loving Hands

2008-09-20T11:42:00.001+07:00

It was going to be our leanest Christmas. We had discussed not giving presents at all, but our children were still in school. Both my husband and I remembered the meager years of our childhoods, and we did not want a Christmas without presents for our children. So, we got the family together, and we all agreed, that this would be the Christmas where we would exchange only gifts that we had made with our own hands.

There was a kind of hushed peace that settled upon us in the month before Christmas. No last minute shopping, where we would dash into the store before it closed, and then dash out with some meaningless, soon-to-be-forgotten gift. This Christmas would require thought and planning.

The house was quiet for weeks as we each ransacked boxes of craft supplies, materials, and ribbons. Bedroom doors closed early, as our daughters giggled and planned all the wonderful surprises that they had in store for each member of the family. I was able to design and make special Christmas ornaments and tiny photo albums, telling the story of each child's life. I cannot remember the gift that I made for my husband, but I will never forget the gift that he made for me.

That Christmas he became a man of secrets. Louie, a big man with large, capable hands, was an electrician in the Navy. I was simply amazed to see the things that he could make work. His powerful hands could pull cables weighing hundreds of pounds, with a strength that would bring another man to his knees, but I had also felt those loving hands gently stroke my headaches away, and I'd witnessed the tenderness in those hands as he held a sick child. So, I was curious to see what those hands would create for me for Christmas.

He took over the back bedroom. Sitting at a child's desk, working under the light of a cheap study lamp, he performed his mysterious enterprise. He would walk into the house, right after work, carrying brown paper bags held tightly to his chest. Some of the bags were so tiny, that I couldn't imagine what they contained. I made cookies and cakes and planned the Christmas meal, as I imagined the tantalizing moment, when I would unwrap his gift.

As Christmas day neared, I barely saw my husband. I had to insist that he eat something, and then he took a notion to eating right after work, so he could devote himself fully to his project. He was in the door, barely pausing for a brief kiss, then into the back room! And, no matter how long I stood with my ear to the door, I couldn't hear a sound!

I had never been so excited. I couldn't wait. What was he making!? I imagined all sorts of electronic equipment, perhaps a flashing light-board that whistled or clanged. Maybe he was building me some wonderful electronic gismo! I had a lot of fun trying to guess what the surprise would be. I hadn't a clue.

Christmas day dawned bright and crisp. First came breakfast, and the only thing that could be touched before breakfast were the stockings. The girls dived into their stockings, through the nuts and apples, all the way down to the orange that was in the toe. One would think that these southern children had never tasted an orange! They peeled and separated and sucked the juicy fruit, while inhaling a piece of sausage quiche. Breakfast was finished, and we headed for the gifts.

The girls loved every little gift. I had insisted on going last. The girls were so excited, that they wanted me to tear into Louie's gift, but I waited until every gift was opened and "oooohed and aaaaaahed" over. Then Louie handed me the large, carefully wrapped box.

"Don't shake it," he said, with a mysterious smile.

"Wait until you see it, Momma," smiled Helen.

The girls knew! They had been a part of the conspiracy! Carefully, I unwrapped the box. Too much tape. Louie flipped his pocket-knife out and quickly took care of the tape.

"Afraid someone might break into it?" I asked, with a grin.

"Well, you never know," he assured me, with a wink.

Finally, I opened the box, setting it gently on the floor. I heard a tinkle. What was this? I pulled out miles of tissue paper, and with my eyes closed, I reached inside. It was smooth, with tiny parts. Jenny reached over, holding the box, so that I could pull out the gift.

"Gently," she said.

Holding my breath, I pulled it out. Someone pulled an end-table close and assisted me in setting my gift down. I opened my eyes, and to my amazement I beheld a lovely porcelain carousel, with tiny horses, a roof, and a music box, beautifully painted, fired and assembled by my husband. The tears sprung to my eyes. Such delicate beauty, fashioned by big, strong, hands.

Louie reached over and lifted the carousel, gently turning the music box key. Lovely, tinkling music played, as tears dripped from my eyes. It is my most precious Christmas gift, ever, fashioned by loving hands, that have taught me that true love is not only sweet, but also surprising.

Jaye Lewis is an award winning writer from Virginia, USA. Her stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including Chicken Soup for the Soul and God Allows U-Turns. She also writes content for many online websites and magazines.

Teach Or Punish

2008-09-15T17:14:00.001+07:00

As Greg paces the floor, waiting for his 17-year-old daughter Sandy to return from a school event, he feels two conflicting emotions: fear and anger. Fear that something terrible has happened to her. Anger because he thinks his fear is probably unfounded and Sandy is not hurt, simply irresponsible.

Finally, Sandy calls. She's all right. She just lost track of time. Greg's fear disappears, but his anger grows.

The love that motivated his worry is overwhelmed by a growing sense of outrage, and he begins to rehearse what he will say, what punishment he will inflict. Unless he intercepts his anger, it can easily turn to rage, an emotion likely to produce foolishly impulsive conduct that's likely to alienate Sandy and widen the rift between them.

Here's the character challenge: Can Greg stop the runaway train of anger long enough to think about his objectives? His immediate goal is to vent his fury and frustration and teach Sandy a lesson. His long-term goal is to strengthen - not weaken - his relationship with his daughter and help her become more responsible and respectful.

If Greg stops and thinks about his broader goal, he will want to turn this event into a positive teaching moment. To do that, he will have to choose his words and tone carefully.

Good managers don't yell at or demean employees because it would be ineffective and unethical. Parents have no less duty to be tactful and respectful when dealing with their children.

Remember that character counts!

Michael Josephson

The Power of Belief

2008-09-13T22:10:00.002+07:00

How many times have you used excuses to rationalize your way out of success? Zig Ziglar calls the phenomenon "Stinkin' Thinkin'" and warns us about "hardening of the attitudes."

Wilma Rudolph is an example of how an undying belief in one-self can be the catalyst to overcoming problems. Polio took a toll on Wilma as a child. For six years she wore braces and could not walk, but she believed the braces would someday come off. The doctor was doubtful Wilma would ever walk correctly, but he encouraged her to exercise. Wilma didn't understand that she might be permanently handicapped. She thought that if a little exercise was good, a lot must be very good. When her parents were away, Wilma would take off the braces and try again and again to walk unaided. When she was eleven, she told her doctor, "I have something to show you." Wilma removed her braces and walked across the room. She never put them on again.

Wilma wanted to play sports. After some false starts at basketball, she finally confronted her coach, saying, "If you give me ten minutes a day, I will give you in return a world-class athlete." The coach laughed uncontrollably but agreed to give Wilma the time. When basketball season was over, Wilma turned to track. By age fourteen she was on the track team, and by sixteen she was encouraged to prepare for the Olympics. Wilma Rudolph won a bronze medal at the 1956 Olympics and three gold medals at the 1960 Games.

Belief in yourself and hard work can make you a world-class individual in whatever area you choose. What will you have if you give up? What can you have if you keep on trying?

Alan C. Elliott
Author of A Daily Dose of the American Dream

Not Giving Up

2008-09-10T14:34:00.002+07:00

I can remember a period in my life when I was unemployed and money was running short. I needed a job very badly and it seemed as if no one was hiring.

A very good friend of mine approached me one day with an offer. "I'm going to have to let this job go and I was wondering if you would like to take it over?"

"That would be great," I replied.

I went to speak with the manager and he said he could use me, but never gave me a start date. Really needing the job, I made it a point to go and check in with him every day. I knew he would eventually get tired of me and give me a starting period. Finally one day he said, "You can start Monday morning."

Come Monday morning, I showed up for work extra early. I was ready to do my best. When I went inside I was informed that I would be buffing the floors. My friend was there to show me how to operate the buffer.

"It's real easy," he said, running the machine very smoothly.

He handed it over to me and said, "Here, you give it a try."

I grabbed the handles with a "no problem" attitude and gave it some gas. To my surprise, the buffer whipped around in a big circle, running over my friend's brand new pair of boots, and sending him jumping up on a check-out counter.

Several times, I tried to run it again and failed. I really had to fight that thing to make it go.

"What am I going to do?" I thought to myself. "I finally found a job and I can't do it. Am I going to have to tell them I have to quit?"

After several rough days of buffing, I finally made up my mind that I was going to do this. For about a week, I struggled with the buffer, putting all my weight and strength into it. Eventually, I learned the trick was not to struggle with it at all, just go with the flow of it, and by the second week, I was showing off and running it with one hand.

A few months later, I thought back and wondered what would have happened if I had given up that first week. I certainly would not have had the newfound confidence or a paycheck. Sometime after that experience, I started a new job that required the use of a buffer. I even had to train others to use it, and I always got a kick out of seeing them run it for the first time. I knew, though, if they stuck with it, they would do just fine; they just needed a little encouragement and a lot of practice.

Michael Jordan said, "Obstacles don't have to stop you. If you run into a wall, don't turn around and give up. Figure out how to climb it, go through it, or work around it."

Kip Davis

Kip Davis is the city planner for a small rural town in Arkansas. He writes a weekly column for the town newspaper called "Positive Motivation For The Real World."

Your Wish Is My Command!

2008-09-08T21:57:00.000+07:00

I am gong to take a little idea from The Secret - and expand upon it - and also introduce a principle to those of you who haven't yet seen The Secret. I recommend that you do see it as soon as possible!

OK - here's the principle: That each and every thought you have is actually heard by your very own genie!

Stick with me here - because I do understand just how challenging this suggestion might be to some of you. I'm asking you to look at this light-heartedly - as it doesn't have to shake your foundations completely - it can be absorbed in a light-hearted way - and used in the same manner.

We've all been getting told for years to "be careful what you ask for - you just might get it"!

Some of us have been told this in a light hearted way; some in the form of a joke; some in the form of reference to prayer in a religious sense; and some in a very serious way. Whichever way we tend to view this - it is in itself part of the relationship we have with our genie... our thought processes.

The Law of Attraction which is the main focus of The Secret, is about owning what we create within our lives - and taking responsibility for our thoughts and understanding just how powerful they can be.

OK - the genie principle.

I truly believe that if each of us can embrace the simple idea that we have a friendly genie paying attention to each and every thought we have - then we will learn to grasp in a light-hearted way that we do actually create our own results in life.

If we can imagine that each thought (and our verbalizing of those thoughts) is being heard, and responded to like this; "OK - your wish is my command"! "I'll get right onto that for you"!

Whether the thoughts and words we use are positive - or negative - the results will be in alignment with those thoughts and words. Too many sages down through the ages and into the present have been agreeing on this for too long for it not to be true!

Remember - the votes have been unanimous for centuries!

What we think - we will manifest!
What we think - we will become!

What we think - we will continue to think - unless we take action to change our habitual thinking.

Thinking that has been put there by life; by our experiences in life; by other people who have had the same thought patterns put there by life; by their experiences in life; and by other people in their lives... and so it goes. Generations of thoughts which have created reality for millions of people - have been passed down to us.

Right now we all have a choice: To continue living under other people's opinions passed down to us about life; or to embrace change here and now and begin to create our own positive thoughts based upon a few pinnacle principles...

Unconditional Love; Abundance; Forgiveness; Spiritual Awareness; Inner Peace (which will spread to your community, then to your state, then to your country, and eventually globally); Deserving; Kindness; and Mind/Body/Spirit balance.

Of course there are other pinnacle principles on which to base new thoughts and ideas - but those just given above are some of the main ones necessary for each of us to manifest abundance, good health, a balanced lifestyle, peace and happiness in our lives.

I am very aware that many of you reading this will already be relating to your own genie as being God, and of course I encourage and respect that thought process, and the feelings surrounding those beliefs. My reasoning in writing this is to encourage a light-hearted aspect to our relationship with our thought processor.

A genie is something that most of us can actually visualize - so being capable of visualizing someone taking notes - then acting on those notes - is one slightly different way to view the importance of how our thoughts turn into reality!

May you and your genie have a sensational week together.

Remember: "What others do or say is their stuff; how we react, or not, is our stuff"!

Phil Evans is a Motivator, Business Coach and Inspirational Writer based in Australia.

Appreciating a Parent's Love

2008-09-07T10:05:00.001+07:00

While window-shopping in New York City, I saw an old gold watch that reminded me of one my father gave me when I graduated from college. It had been engraved with the simple inscription LOVE, DAD. But it was stolen during a burglary years ago, and I hadn't thought much of it or the inscription since.

I always knew my dad loved me. I took it for granted. He was supposed to. I was his son. I'm always a bit shocked when I run into people who have had a different experience. The truth is, not all dads love their kids, and those who do don't always express it. I had no idea how lucky I was.

Until I became a father myself, I had no way of understanding the depth and intensity of his feelings and the emotional investment he had in my happiness. I couldn't imagine how much it must have hurt him when I was cut from my baseball team or dumped by my first girlfriend or how proud he'd be today seeing me become the kind of father he taught me to be.

I always assumed I loved my dad and he knew it, but the truth is, my love was shallow and unexplored. I never came close to feeling or expressing gratitude for all the ways he made my childhood safe, comfortable and fun. I wish I had given him that gift.

Of course, my dad wasn't perfect. He had flaws like everyone else. It's so easy to overweigh our parents' shortcomings, underweight their virtues and undervalue their love.

What's not easy is experiencing and expressing gratitude while it still maters.

Michael Josephson

Reflecting on the Good Times

2008-09-06T14:26:00.002+07:00

I had arrived at the airport about 30 minutes before the required check in to catch an early flight home. It had been a very busy three days for me on an interstate trip with lots of meetings, business to do and new customers to meet. So I was glad to have the extra time to make my notes on what I needed to action when I got back to my office the following day. Equally, it is always a great feeling when you complete your "to do" list, as well as the sense of control that comes from getting it out of your head and onto paper, or should I say into the laptop.

Then came the announcement that I am sure all air travellers loath to hear - the flight had been delayed indefinitely due to a technical problem with the plane. As I sat in the departure lounge I could see a group of technicians and ground staff rushing about, obviously endeavouring to fix the problem with the plane. I watched and listened as many of the passengers sitting near me shared their frustration about the inconvenience and why couldn't the airline just wheel out another plane or put us on another flight. A steady stream of passengers lined up at the departure desk only to receive the expected up date from the customer service attendants that they can do very little other than ask us all to be patient and that as soon as they can get us away, they would call the flight. The mobile phones were working over time throughout the departure lounge as passengers left messages for business associates and loved ones to update them on our predicament.

As I sat waiting for the announcement which would no doubt bring cheers from all of my fellow travellers, I reflected on my last meeting for the day. It was not a business meeting but rather a very enjoyable and all to brief lunch with an old business associate and friend I had not seen for over 12 years, and who I had worked with for nearly 15 years prior to us losing contact. I had been given his contact phone number by a customer I had visited on the first day of my trip, so I called him out of the blue and made a time for us to meet.

Our lunch was spent recalling times gone by and as well filling each other in on what had happened in our lives over the last 12 years. Our conversation was punctuated with statements such as "remember when we did...," "whatever happened to...," and of course the one we all liked to hear, "you know you haven't changed one bit, except for a few more grey hairs." We both laughed and smiled as we recalled the good times and the great experiences we had shared over the 15 years we had worked together. Each event we discussed triggered another recollection and everything we talked about centred on the good times and only served to energise each of us during the course of our lunch. Almost simultaneously, right at the end of our time together, we both said how much we both enjoyed it and that we must do it again. We agreed to catch up when I was next in town, then said our goodbyes and I was off to the airport.

So as I sat waiting for the announcement that my flight was finally ready to depart, it was great to have this additional time to revisit and replay in my mind all that we had talked about. I realised at that moment just how important it is to have regular reminders of the good times in your life and to be able to take the time to reminisce, for so much of what we have done in our lives, shapes us and makes us who we are today and beyond.

Sandwiched in between the busy time of my trip and the focus on getting business done, I was fortunate enough to have had the chance to take a short break and reflect on the good things that had happened in my life over 12 years ago. It was somewhat like looking at an old photo album that you have found stored away in a cupboard in your house, there before your eyes are lots of wonderful memories in print that take you back to that time and place, and most importantly to those people who are in the photos. It also made me realise when you get caught up doing what has to be done in the moment, how easy it is to forget the people you have met in your life who have made a positive impact on and enriched you, often in only the smallest of ways.

My flight home was finally called nearly three hours later and yes as you would have expected many of the passengers cheered when the announcement was made. I smiled as I boarded the plane and realised that I was not at all upset about the delay in the flight departure, as I had been able to spend much of my time reflecting on the good times from days gone by and I eagerly look forward to many more opportunities to reminisce.

Keith Ready

Inspired by Vasil Delvizis, my business associate and good friend from times gone by.

Keith Ready lives in Sydney, Australia and is affectionately known as Mr. Inspiration. He is publisher of InspirEmail which provides inspirational messages to refresh the spirit and boost the emotional bank account.

Reaching Out

2008-09-03T20:51:00.002+07:00

I first signed onto the internet in 1996. The first thing I did was search for writing groups. There were hundreds of them, but I wanted one with a chat room where I could correspond personally with writers.

The one I joined was special. I met many aspiring writers and a few established ones. In this group I met a young man named Dan (Not his real name). We became friends, and over the years I learned his life story. Dan is Korean and had been adopted by an American family. Dan was a young boy when his father left him and his mom. Later his mother slowly pushed him away from her.

At 18, Dan was on his own in the world. He worked two jobs and was going to school. He tried hard, but he was not making it. His two jobs were dragging his marks down. He would lose jobs when he tried to get his marks up. Dan was falling down and had no one to pick him up. He had no anchor. His family had abandoned him; life had abandoned him; his future a mountain too high to climb.

Dan latched onto me and began calling me his cyber dad.

A few years back Dan emailed me. He had reached his limit. He had lost another job. Juggling jobs and school had failed. He had dropped the "ball." With the loss of income he could not pay the rent for his tiny room. His landlord was going to throw him out.

Dan confessed to me that he was close to ending it all. Myself and another friend of his chipped together and sent him a couple hundred dollars to pay his rent. This was money I could not afford to give, but he needed it more than I did. Before I sent him the money, I went online and did a search of government agencies in the area where he lived. I mailed several government officials and told them I had a special request for someone in need.

I said, "I know this may seem strange, but I have a friend in need. I am a Canadian who belongs to an internet writing group. A young man I met there needs your help. He has lost his job and his landlord is throwing him out for non-payment of rent. He has been struggling with two jobs and school and has no family to help him. I believe he is considering suicide. I ask you for any assistance you can give."

Only one mailed back. She was a compassionate lady who mailed me a list of support and help groups. They included the suicide help line and a group that could assist him with work related assistance.

I mailed Dan the list and made him promise to use them before I sent him money. He promised he would, and he did. The groups did assist him. He got a new job and his future looked brighter. I also made him call every relative he could find for their help. He was skeptical, but did it. One kindly aunt gave him a room.

Dan was on his way.

This occurred in 1998. Dan and I moved on from there. We emailed once every few months, and he always called me Dad.

In December of 2003 Dan called me. He had met a young lady and he asked me if I would come to his wedding. The wedding was going to be in Kansas. I said I would love to be there to watch him get married. He replied, "Dad, you don't understand. I don't want you to just be there; I want you to be my best man."

I was floored. I had never met Dan before, but how could I refuse? In the spring of 2004 I flew to Kansas to give this young man his first hug from his cyber dad and had the honor of standing by his side as he took his new bride into his life.

I have been through a lot in my 45 years on this world. Some of it has been very hard and some of it has been wonderful. My visit to Kansas was one of the wonderful ones.

I learned a valuable lesson - reach out and touch someone and you will be touched back - give and you shall receive.

Michael T. Smith

Today I Will Make A Difference

2008-09-01T21:04:00.002+07:00

Today I will make a difference. I will begin by controlling my thoughts. A person is the product of his thoughts. I want to be happy and hopeful. Therefore, I will have thoughts that are happy and hopeful. I refuse to be victimized by my circumstances. I will not let petty inconveniences such as stoplights, long lines, and traffic jams be my masters. I will avoid negativism and gossip. Optimism will be my companion, and victory will be my hallmark. Today I will make a difference.

I will be grateful for the twenty-four hours that are before me. Time is a precious commodity. I refuse to allow what little time I have to be contaminated by self-pity, anxiety, or boredom. I will face this day with the joy of a child and the courage of a giant. I will drink each minute as though it is my last. When tomorrow comes, today will be gone forever. While it is here, I will use it for loving and giving. Today I will make a difference.

I will not let past failures haunt me. Even though my life is scarred with mistakes, I refuse to rummage through my trash heap of failures. I will admit them. I will correct them. I will press on. Victoriously. No failure is fatal. It's OK to stumble...I will get up. It's OK to fail...I will rise again. Today I will make a difference.

I will spend time with those I love. My spouse, my children, my family. A man can own the world but be poor for the lack of love. A man can own nothing and yet be wealthy in relationships. Today I will spend at least five minutes with the significant people in my world. Five quality minutes of talking or hugging or thanking or listening. Five undiluted minutes with my mate, children, and friends.

Today I will make a difference.

Max Lucado
From "On The Anvil"
Copyright (Tyndale Publishing, 1985) Max Lucado, Used by Permission

With more than 28 million books in print, Max Lucado has touched millions with his signature storytelling writing style. Awards and accolades follow Max with each book he writes.

Brains and Brawn

2008-08-29T23:23:00.003+07:00

It seemed strange that those of us from the orphanage were always the last to be picked when it came to any type of a game at school.

Baseball, football and even dodge-ball. It didn't seem to make a difference if we were tall or short, thin or fat or fast or slow. The fact that we came from the orphanage appeared to be all that mattered to those who did the choosing.

I am not sure what came over me the day that the teacher picked me to be one of the captains of the dodge-ball team. I was rather shocked as even the teacher treated us as though we were different from the other kids.

This time my team was going to win. I knew who was the fastest and I knew who had the best aim. This was the day that I was going to become the winner.

As we gathered in a group on the school ground, the teacher flipped a coin to see who would be the first to pick.

"Heads!" yelled out Mrs. Cherry, my fourth grade teacher.

I smiled as I was the one who had picked heads. I am not sure what came over me at that moment. Winning the game did not seem to be so important to me now. I looked around the large group of boys and my eyes stopped at Jeffrey. He was slow and he weighed a whopping 98 pounds.

"JEFFREY," I yelled out, as I pointed at him.

He looked up in total shock as he began to move his massive body toward me.

"You picked me?" he asked.

I reached over and I patted him on the back.

My next pick was Leonard. He was a small boy who wore black, thick rimmed glasses and he never combed his hair. He was the quiet type and he was not liked by very many of the popular kids. He was without a doubt the brain of the class.

The remainder of my picks were kids that I knew from the orphanage. Or, Kids who were always the last to be picked. Kids that never got to play because of the teams being uneven.

"He picked a bunch of losers. We're gonna win without even trying," said the captain of the other team.

"We're gonna lose," said Jeffrey, as our team huddled in a tight circle.

"Of course were gonna lose," I told them.

"Then why did you pick me?" asked Jeffrey.

"And why did you pick me? I can't see without my glasses," said Leonard.

As the game started, I made sure that Jeffrey stood behind those of us who were faster. That way he could get out of the way of the ball before it reached him. I made sure that my team did not stay in the center of the circle. We moved around the circle, rather than across the circle. That seemed to give us a big advantage.

The ball was thrown five or six times before Robert was hit. Another five or six times before the ball hit Wayne. One at a time my team members were hit and fell out. They hit us with the ball as hard as they could, slamming the ball against our backs when we could not get out of the way. Their team was laughing and mocking at us the entire time. Soon, it was down to just Jeffrey and me.

"I can't believe it is just you and me," said Jeffrey, panting as hard as he could.

"Just stay behind me," I told him.

"Get that fat Jeffrey kid," yelled out one of their team members.

They threw the ball ten or more times without hitting either one of us. The harder they threw, the more they missed and the madder they seemed to get.

"OK, that's enough. You're getting too rough," yelled out Mrs. Cherry.

I will never forget the look on Jeffrey's face when the game ended. He could hardly believe that he had made it that far. When Jeffrey and I went to the bathroom to wash up he had tears in his eyes.

"You made me feel good by picking me first," he told me, as he stood there crying over the sink.

I learned a very good lesson that day. We were just a bunch of kids who were not popular at all. Earlier that morning, Mrs. Cherry had talked to us about "brains" and "brawn." She told us that if we were to succeed in life that we had to learn to use all of our skills, and that we had to work together as a team.

I just wanted to see if the teacher knew what she was talking about.

Roger Dean Kiser, Sr.

Roger and his wife, Judy, also a writer, live in Brunswick, Georgia. He now writes and speaks to children in the Georgia School system about child abuse and its effects

Marion Luna Brem's Story

2008-08-28T22:29:00.001+07:00

In 1984, Marion Luna Brem was 30 years old - and she was dying. Marion had cancer of the breast and cervix and had undergone two surgeries in 11 weeks - a mastectomy and hysterectomy. Now she was suffering the horrifying effects of chemotherapy. Adding to her pain, the disease had robbed her of her hair, her savings, and now her husband. He walked out saying he couldn't deal with the pressure any more. Marion was left with two small boys and no means to support them. Worse, her prognosis was a death sentence: Doctors told her she had 2 years to live, 5 if she was really lucky. So, on a hot Texas morning in May, Marion laid with her cheek on the cold bathroom floor trying not to throw up - again. And despite her gut-wrenching pain and paralyzing fear, she knew she could not afford to lie there feeling sorry for herself. Instead, Marion had to focus on taking care of her kids. And that meant finding a job. But she had almost no experience and little formal education - not exactly a powerful resume to launch a budding career. Plus, she was a woman - an Hispanic woman - which in many people's eyes meant she had two strikes against her. Marion thought only of survival. The words rich and successful didn't even enter her mind.

Where to begin? Susan, Marion's best friend, suggested she look for a job in sales, but Marion worried about her lack of experience. Susan reminded her that there was a lot of value in the job market for the skills she possessed as a housewife: time management, budgeting, not to mention the people skills she developed while being a room mother and member of the PTA. So with all the resolve she could muster, Marion thought, "Why not?"

Of all the industries to pursue, Marion chose the male-dominated field of selling automobiles. One of Marion's past part-time jobs was a switchboard operator at a Dallas car dealership, so she knew there was good money in car sales. She had also seen firsthand how salesmen talked only to the male half of the couple, virtually ignoring the woman. Intuitively, she knew women were an important part of the decision-making process and believed this was an opportunity. Statistics now reveal that Marion was right. When couples purchase a car, the woman influences the decision 80 percent of the time. Marion recognized the need for car saleswomen, and she was determined to fill that need.

Armed only with her gut instinct and a funky blonde wig, Marion approached the first dealership. "Have you ever thought about hiring a woman?" she asked. "No!" was the curt reply. She heard the same response from 16 other sales managers around town. Yet Marion Brem didn't give up. She couldn't! "I think courage is something you decide upon," she says. "You wake up in the morning and have a meeting with the mirror and say, 'Today I'm going to be courageous.'"

But her approach clearly wasn't working. So on her 17th try, she modified her pitch and said, "Here's what I can do for you..." After telling the manager her angle on women car buyers, she was hired on the spot! Marion Luna Brem's career in car sales had begun.

At first, her all-male colleagues embraced the rookie saleswoman. "It really wasn't until I began competing with them, beating them, that I noticed a change of heart," Marion recalls. "But when they see that you're not going away, and not going to personalize their derogatory remarks, then a kind of respect is born."

Brem's first year out, she was named salesperson of the year. Of course, the plaque read "Salesman of the Year," and the award included a trip to the Super Bowl and a man's Rolex watch. Still, it was a great honor and a wonderful achievement. Meanwhile, her cancer went into remission and Marion was going strong.

For 2 more years, Marion was a top producer, but she wanted more. It was then that she approached her boss about a management position. Her proposal was flatly rejected. He said that he'd be "nuts" to take her out of sales with all the money she was making both of them. As difficult as it was for her to leave the security of the established clientele of repeat and referral business she had worked so hard to create, she moved on, believing she would find what she was looking for. That meant, once again, knocking on doors.

After several frustrating weeks of pounding the pavement, Marion was finally hired as an entry-level manager at a new dealership. She quickly climbed the management ladder. Two and a half years later, she was ready to start her own dealership. She envisioned an operation run by women for women. All she needed was a "measly" $800,000 and she was off to the races. To Marion, it might as well have been $800 million.

Once again, Marion rolled up her sleeves. "I put together a portfolio on myself. I literally went to the drugstore and got 50 of those school folders," she recalls. Inside, she put her certificates, press clippings, and biography. Marion called it her "brag folder." On the advice of a trusted friend, she sent the package to 50 CPAs all over Texas - money managers who represented doctors looking for investment opportunities.

Two weeks later, Marion received a call from one of her contacts. It would change her life. The CPA had a client, a cardiologist, who had agreed to become her silent partner. The doctor helped arrange $800,000 in working capital as well as millions more in loans needed to lease, stock, and market her first dealership. Marion approached Chrysler Corporation - and quickly struck a deal.

Now all she needed was a name for her brand-new dealership. Marion wanted something distinctive - and it had to be feminine. She tried several "feel-good" names, but nothing stuck. Finally, it hit her: "Love." "It's the most positive word in the dictionary," she thought. "And it's the way I feel about this project, the way I'm going to treat my customers and employees."

So in 1989, just 5 years after selling her first car, "Love Chrysler" was born, complete with a heart logo on every car. Marion's motto: "It's not just the hearts on our cars, it's the hearts inside our people. We're spreading Love all over Texas!"

Marion's labor of love paid off handsomely. Today, she is cancer-free, is the owner of two car dealerships, and recently celebrated the 11th anniversary of Love Chrysler. Her company is 89th on the Hispanic Business 500 with revenues of more than $45 million.

At the age of 30, Marion Luna Brem had lost her breast, her womb, her marriage...and soon, the doctors said, she would lose her life. But Marion literally dragged herself off a cold tile floor, put on a cheap wig, and took on a world dominated by good ole boys. In the process, she raised two kids, beat a devastating illness, and turned steel into love.

Cynthia Kersey

Excerpted from "Unstoppable Women: Achieve any Breakthrough Goal in Just 30 Days." Cynthia's new book is for every woman - from stay at home moms to corporate executives - and not only includes a revolutionary 30-day program for creating lasting change, but features amazing stories of remarkable women.

A Dream World

2008-08-27T21:05:00.002+07:00

"I look at that family, that car, that house and that job and I think, what a dream..."

I confess that years ago I gazed longingly at luxury cars. I dreamed of owning one, brand didn't matter, I wasn't picky, any one would do. I continued living in this dream world until one day I came to a simple yet powerful realization...that at one point in time a luxury car was a dream for the person who now drives it. With few exceptions, he or she didn't always have the skill or education to earn the money to buy that lavish ride. It was a dream for them...one that came to fruition through hard work and focus. I guess one could say that today, they are living a dream world?

Over time I thought more about 'living a dream world' and bringing dreams to reality, until finally I arrived at a staggering yet unmistakable conclusion that it is all a dream. In the past I glanced at a Lexus or Mercedes and thought that person is 'living in a dream world.' Over time I have expanded my thoughts to conclude that everything we see, use, consume or have is a result of a dream...let me explain.

The technology in the computer I type on at this very moment was a dream of many scientists years ago. The computer that now sits on my desk was made by a company that just a few short years ago called a garage their world wide corporate headquarters. What began as a dream of an energetic entrepreneur is now a worldwide fortune 500 company. The parts and assembly for this computer are the careful work of many hands, people who thought they would probably not be assembling computers for a living. Yet, this work lets them foster their dreams of providing a nice living for their family, an education, a new television, a daughter's wedding or a car for their teenager.

This computer now rests on my desk, one that I dreamed of having in a study that I imagined years ago. I call my study 'the room of knowing.' Its walls are lined with articles I have published, book jackets from books I have written and some awards that I have won, accomplishments I only dreamed of years ago. It is called 'the room of knowing' because I now know I can accomplish my dreams if I set my mind to it, this room reminds me of that. It could also be called the 'room of dreams,' after all, that's where it all started. I guess one could say that as I type...I am working in a dream world, a world of my dreams (the study) and others (the computer)...

As I drive to work this morning, I realize that I can run through the same 'dream' drill with my car. It was made by a company that started small...a dream. Engineers with a vision (or dream) designed it. Workers who are working a dream job because it provides for and creates their dreams assembled it. I can run the same dream drill with the STOP sign at the intersection by my home. It was put there by a crew who dreamed of working outside. In a subdivision that was a dream of a developer. Ordered by local, county and state laws, laws passed by people who dreamed of serving their community and country. The sign is in Cole County, Missouri, one of 50 states that make our great country, a country that began in the hopes, hearts and dreams of our forefathers.

I could run through the same dream thought process as I pass the local McDonalds restaurant, my CPA's office, the public library or the state capital. I could do the same with the water at my tap or the road I drive on or the Green Tea that I quietly sip but that would be redundant, you get the point, each and everything around us is part of a dream that has reached fruition. This reality proves dreams do come true. That anything we touch, have, hold or use is a result of the hopes, energies and imaginations of the ones who create it...it is part of a dream world. Focus on 'a dream world' for just five minutes today and you will realize an appreciation, astonishment and empowerment that you have not felt before...you will literally be opening your eyes, for a first time, in a dream.

"I look at that family, that car, that house and that job and I think, what a dream..."

Matt Forck

Matt Forck is a dad, husband, writer and speaker. Matt has published numerous articles on a variety of topics, two books and is looking forward to the release of a new book; The Call Project.

Fear

2008-08-26T12:32:00.002+07:00

Of all the negative emotions we can experience, fear may be the most paralyzing. It can cause us to hesitate when action is imperative, or it can make us react too quickly in a situation that needs careful consideration. Fear of the unknown may keep us from something truly wonderful. On the other hand, fear of letting something "too good to be true" slip away can cause disaster.

For seven years, I postponed a surgical procedure that had the potential to make my life five hundred percent better than it was, to say nothing of relieving constant, often excruciating, pain. General anesthesia, during other necessary surgeries, had come close to ending my life three times. The alternative, a spinal block, scared me to death!

When I finally reached the point that the possibility of dying during or following the knee replacement surgery was no worse than the pain, I agreed to see a surgeon. Several of my friends recommended the same doctor, so I took my courage in both hands and went to see him.

"Not a problem," the six-foot-seven, blond-turning-to-silver Adonis told me. "We'll do a spinal block." I blinked several times and swallowed hard before I replied.

"Uh...isn't that painful?" I asked. The doctor leaned back in his swivel chair and smiled.

"Some say it's no worse than a bee sting," he said. "Others seem to have more of a problem with it. It's really not bad. We'll keep you lightly sedated during the whole surgical procedure, and you will be fine."

I blinked some more. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how many spinals he had received in his lifetime. Before I could retort, he continued.

"When would you like to schedule the knee replacement?" Since it was mid-October, January seemed far enough away to give me pondering time, just in case I needed to re-think the situation.

"Maybe mid-January?" I asked.

"Fine. How about January seventeenth?" I swallowed hard again and agreed.

January came awfully fast. No matter how many people I talked to about the spinal block, I couldn't get a positive consensus that there would be little pain. It was the part of the whole procedure that I dreaded the most. Just the thought of baring my vulnerable backbone to a needle of monstrous size (according to several witnesses) gave me cold chills. I took the most sensible approach: I tried not to think about it, which was a miserable failure.

At six a.m. on the morning of January seventeenth, I allowed a blue-swathed nurse to wheel me into the pre-op cubicle. Another lady in blue proceeded to paint and scrub my entire right leg with a sudsy iodine-y substance, which she did for several minutes.

"Does a spinal block really hurt? I blurted out my fear. The woman nodded.

"It can," she said, "but usually no more than a hornet's sting." A hornet's sting? I remembered how badly honeybee and bumblebee stings hurt when I was a child. I considered hobbling away from the gurney, but I had already come this far. I couldn't let my children and grandchildren think that I was a total wimp.

After two attempts at finding a vein my left hand, the anesthetist attacked my right. He finally found one, but his finesse was not wonderful. I frowned. "I bet that spinal is going to hurt a lot worse, isn't it?" I asked.

"It might," he replied. I was not reassured.

After what seemed like a very short time, one of the attending physician's said, "Let's get this show on the road." I knew a moment of total, absolute terror.

"Don't I have to have a spinal?" I asked. General laughter greeted my remark.

"Sweetie, you've already had it."

"Oh." Duh, as my granddaughter would have said. I wondered why I couldn't remember getting it.

During the surgery I seemed to be totally aware of everything that was done, but I'm sure that I drifted in and out of consciousness. I heard the conversation, even took part in it occasionally; and I could see the tall surgeon's masked face above the blue screen that was draped across my chest and separated me from the action. I heard the sound of the saw that prepared the bones for the prosthesis, and the whine of the drill that screwed four, three-inch screws into my lower leg. Even when the hammering began, I thought: Hmmmm...that's interesting. They must be pounding on my leg, but I can't feel a thing.

Intermittent sedation made the whole process seem very short, time wise. In less than three hours I was wheeled into the room that would become mine. My family waited to commiserate. "Piece of cake!" I announced. That, of course, was before the feeling came back into my leg. Still, even though the pain of the surgery did get really nasty, and the therapy was sometimes more than I thought I could bear, it was worth it.

Three months after the fact, I walk without pain. I can go up and down stairs without wincing and moaning and groaning. I can almost cross my legs, as I had not been able to do for years. Still, there is one thing that drives me crazy. If the pain of the spinal block was bad enough that the anesthetist gave me Versaid to make me forget the entire procedure, HOW BAD WAS IT? Did I make a complete fool of myself with hysterics or screaming or babbling or what? What happened that they didn't want me to remember?

Now here I am, new knee, new life, new outlook; and the thought of a spinal block still makes me cringe with fear. If I weren't so busy with my new abilities, I could drive myself crazy with dread of the possibility of another spinal block somewhere down the road. How asinine is that? To quote a wonderful source of wisdom: "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

How moronic is unreasonable fear? I don't know. I just know that when it comes to contemplating a spinal block, I am an absolute moron. I have to keep in mind that the things we sometimes fear the most never come to pass. In my case, even if someday I must repeat the spinal block thing without benefit of the amnesia-inducing drug, I can get through it. As the revered English Prime Minister once said: "All we have to fear is fear, itself."

Barbara Elliott Carpenter

Author of two novels, Starlight, Starbright... and Wish I May, Wish I Might...Barbara continues to work on the third book of the series, The Wish I Wish Tonight. She contributes to many online publications, both fiction and non-fiction.

She Died Today

2008-08-23T22:43:00.004+07:00

Josee-Anne Desrochers died today. She was admitted into the hospital with pneumonia on Thursday. She is gone today.

She wasn't a woman that was a world celebrity. In fact, she was just a simple woman, going through her everyday life in obscurity. She was just an ordinary person like you and I.

Then one day, on August 10, 1995, her 10-year-old son, Daniel Desrochers, was killed when a jeep exploded on Adam Street, where he played with a friend in front of a Montreal School. His life was taken from him in a matter of seconds. His future quashed, her family destroyed.

My friends that have gone through this experience tell me that a mother never truly recovers from the death of her child. I believe them. I can't imagine how I could go on if my son was taken from me.

Some mothers fall into the deep dark abyss of depression and never return. Some mothers try to put the shattered pieces of their lives back together as best that they can. My book Angels Watching Over Me is about a woman, Carissa Forbes (true identity remains undisclosed to public), who is one such woman.

Other mothers reach out and help grieving mothers through prayers, support groups, and websites. My writer for Storytime Tapestry, Sharon Bryant, is one of these women.

Then there are woman like Josee-Anne Desrochers who decided that a support group was not enough for the families of the victims of tragic and senseless deaths. She vowed that her voice would be heard and if she could help clean up the streets of Montreal and make it a safer place for children everywhere she would.

Josee-Anne Desrochers called for a public inquiry to determine if the police could have prevented her son's death, and if they could catch his killer. The death was a result of Montreal's infamous "biker gang wars" and it caused a public outcry. Daniel Desrocher's death was attributed to the Hells Angels, Nomad Chapter of Montreal, warring against the equally infamous "Rock Machine."

A provincial task force, known as the "Wolverines," was eventually created to look into biker activity. However, the Hell's Angels continued to strive. But the Wolverines eventually brought them down.

Today, as I listened to the news, CTV Montreal stated that Josee-Anne Desrochers was instrumental in her efforts to bring down the Hells Angels, Nomad chapter. She created a lobbying group that gave the long overdue voice to the victims of violent senseless crimes.

Today, I mourn the death of a courageous woman, a simple mother, an ordinary person just like you and I. She was a woman on a mission and she will forever remain a hero in my mind.

Carol Roach

Carol is a native of Montreal, Canada. She holds a Masters in counseling psychology and is the author of the book: Picking Up the Pieces: A Woman's Journey.

The Making Of A Memory

2008-08-20T22:51:00.002+07:00

One can't predict when or where they will come from; those memories that stay with us a lifetime, and never fail to bring us warm fuzzy feelings.

My husband had just finished loading his car; made one lap back through the house and then into the kitchen. "I guess filling my thermos is all I have left to do, and then I'm off." Down the drain went the hot water that had been warming his thermos. With a very nostalgic look on his face he softly said, "When I filled this with water earlier, I thought of your mom. In fact, anytime I fill my thermos I think of her."

"Oh honey, that's so sweet. I know she's watching and listening right now with a big smile on her face," I responded as tears began to brim my eyelids.

"You know, I never fill my thermos that I don't think of her, and I always smile too." The tone in his voice was so tender as he spoke of my mother who is no longer with us.

Years ago we had been visiting my parents, and the morning we were leaving mother watched as Jerry began to fill his thermos. Being the "coffee drinker" in the family, he's always placed himself in charge of thermos duties. Mom then casually offered up a tidbit of advice. "Jerry, if you would fill your thermos with hot water and let it sit a while, your coffee would stay hot longer on your drive." The look on his face was priceless as her simple suggestion sunk in. Well of course it would! It only makes all the sense in the world! Who wouldn't know that? He dumped the small amount of coffee already in the thermos, and ran the tap until it was at its hottest; then refilled with piping hot water. After pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, he sat down to enjoy a few more minutes with mom, and to discuss this unique new idea.

Words of wisdom from a loving mother-in-law made an impact that will never be forgotten. When spoken that morning, Jerry didn't realize he would always hear those words ringing in his ears, or that they would bring a smile to his face time and time again. And Mother would never have dreamed her words would be a treasured, and everlasting memory in the heart of her son-in-law.

The "fondest, lasting memories" don't necessarily come from "major moments" in life...the making of a memory simply happens...

Kathleene S. Baker
©2005

Kathleene lives in Dallas, Texas with her husband of 28 years. She has two stepchildren and three grandchildren. In the past year she has had stories or poems featured by Starfish, Storytime Tapestry, Driftwood, Inspired Buffalo, Women With Heart, Texas Bob's World, Hearts With Soul, Warm Fuzzy Stories, Christian Voices and Petwarmers. Kathleene has become a Senior Writer for Storytime Tapestry, as well as Moderator.

Dance In A Relationship Of Respect

2008-08-19T08:12:00.001+07:00

I constantly attracted a certain type of experience with men and women in my life, where I felt bullied or disrespected and left feeling not good about myself. I would feel anger in their breath and suddenly I couldn't speak. I would become inauthentic and would eventually feel myself in fear and "walking on eggshells," until I had had enough! I would leave the relationship physically or emotionally by shutting down, usually with judgment and blame...saying to myself, "What more can I give to this person? They're never happy, nothing is ever good enough...they are so angry and controlling." I would be exhausted by the relationship, always watching what I said...trying to make them comfortable.

One day a phone call woke me up! It was a friend calling about an outing the next day. I had been experiencing all of the same relationship tensions with her over the years, usually feeling unsafe to be myself. When she was in a good mood, we would have a great time together, and if she wasn't, I sometimes received a tongue-lashing! I am sure she could hear it in my voice as I said, "I have the flu and I am going to bed for the day." Her conversation geared up as she shared what was going on in her life and after ten minutes or so I found an opportunity to interrupt her and say, "I really feel sick and I have to go to bed." This triggered her response as she blew up at me...her anger and emotions came at me so unexpectedly. I took care of me by saying again, "I have to go!"...and I hung up the phone.

I felt my emotions surface...feeling disrespected and hurt...I felt anger at her and myself.

My whole life I experienced relationships with men who would control me for the love that I craved and women whose approval I felt I needed. I thought I could save everyone with the love I had to give. I was so tired of this experience...I wanted to change...what was I doing wrong?...why was I attracting this type of relationship over and over again?

I closed my eyes and I saw all of these men and women whom I had left quietly or blamed openly. Wow, there were many. The emotions that came up in me were overpowering...each person I looked at created the same feelings in me. I remembered how they didn't respect me and I kept quiet, how they manipulated me and I shut down. They controlled my happiness and I allowed them. As I was reviewing these relationships in my mind I felt myself...

Powerless...I cried...I felt my anger...My resentment. They were mean to me! They hurt me!

I screamed out loud...at each one of them...

"I couldn't ever give you enough love."
"It was never good enough."
"You made me feel unsure of myself."
"I hate your anger."

The truth I felt was that I didn't really like them...and I didn't like who I became with them...

I cried and screamed the pain of each relationship. I fell into an exhausted state. I was empty...I started to breathe...and I found my answer...I got it!

Each person I faced during my visualization showed me MY anger. I was able to see how I walked on eggshells because I didn't want to feel MY uncomfortable emotions. I blamed them and made them responsible for my lack of self-worth. They reflected the anger and void of love that was also in me.

I took responsibility...
I owned my anger! It was in me too.
I forgave each person and my heart became open...I felt the freedom in me.

I created a life tool that helps me take care of my unhealthy emotions so that I can be more authentic and attractive, from the inside out, I call it "The Inner Workout." This inner support system strengthens my self-worth muscle.

The next day I visited with my friend and shared my experience. With a gentle and clear voice I said, "I want to be in relationship differently with you now. We continued our friendship for a few more years and it felt much better, although eventually I had to end it after the pattern repeated itself and I was disrespected a few too many times. I had to respect myself enough to leave.

In the past, when I felt my voice was disrespected and boundaries were crossed, I would stop speaking. Self-protection and silence can be a safe place for a while, but only until we can find the courage to stand up for ourselves.

Do you yell at your kids or loved ones? Are you bullied? The common thread is anger. Projected or suppressed anger is so toxic and will destroy love causing separation or illness.

I realize that I can't change anyone, however, this life tool created such a profound shift in me and this change in me inspired others to shift themselves...transforming all of my relationships.

I released my own barriers of anger and resentment so that I could live with an open heart. When I found the opening in me, I felt safe to be all that I am with my loved ones. The voice of beloved love is the intimacy that deepens me in relationship. We all desire safe love to share with another...I attracted my loving husband Bruce who shares the same inner connection. We make the choice to love, honor and listen to each other, inspiring our children, family and friends. many people have told me how they experience Bruce and I together. We are no different at home or out with others. Our rhythm reflects a gentle adoring communication.

Together we Dance in a Relationship of Respect.

Colleen Hoffman Smith

Colleen is an author, inspirational guide, facilitator and relationship expert.

"I Won't Know For 20 Years Or So"

2008-08-17T21:07:00.002+07:00

I'm still basking in the warmth of my latest visit with my hero, Coach John Wooden. I remember vividly when I first heard the Coach talk about the "last game I ever taught," using a phrase that indelibly etched in my mind the idea that the most lasting and important achievements of a great coach are embedded in the character and conduct of his or her athletes.

I once had the occasion to interview the Coach for a short video and he said the coach whose philosophy he admired as much as any other was Amos Alonzo Stagg, a football coach at the University of Chicago when it was a national power. Coach Wooden tells the story that when Coach Stagg was asked if a particularly successful team was one of his greatest ever, Stagg said, "I won't know that for another twenty years or so." You see, Coach Wooden explained, Coach Stagg knew that it would take that long to see how the youngsters under his supervision turned out in life. Elsewhere, Coach Wooden has said, "That's how I feel. I'm most proud of the athlete who does well with his life. That's where success is. Basketball is just a very small part of it."

Very few coaches are remembered for single victories or for the records of their athletes. Some are remembered for a legacy of achievement and influence on their sport, but truly great coaches find impact and immortality in the lives of everyone they taught.

John Wooden never made more than $32,000 a year as a coach, but his impact on his players and all of sports is priceless.

Michael Josephson

Scripting Your Life

2008-08-15T22:07:00.001+07:00

I remember a day some time ago when I felt overwhelmed by a mountain of trouble I really didn't want to climb. At the time, I had a hefty list of people and events, which I named and blamed for all the trouble, and my own name was notably missing from that list. Considering my unpleasant mood, it was a blessing indeed that a friend hung around long enough to pass along some advice which really got my attention. After listening as long as he could to the short version of my dilemma, he abruptly stood up and suggested, "Well, as sad as all that may be, it's just a photograph in time - it's not your whole motion picture, you know. Maybe it's time to re-write your script."

The instant those words were uttered, two visual images flashed across the screen of my mind: A tattered old black-and-white photograph lying in a memorabilia box, and the image of a major motion picture being played out on a screen in a dark theater before a large audience. I got the point - the big difference between freeze frame and live action - and experienced one of those "ah ha" moments which often launch a change for the better in our lives.

I began thinking about the milestone events which either froze me in my tracks or thrust me forward in the direction of my dreams. I closed my eyes and mentally hit the play button on the movie of my life so far, switching from fast forward to rewind, pausing certain scenes to observe what worked and what didn't work because of choices and actions on my part. I resisted the temptation to linger and mourn over missed opportunities and managed not to revel too long in celebration of past personal achievements. I simply spent some solitary time observing those life-changing events and the lessons they taught.

Then it hit me! I told myself, "This story isn't over - there's plenty of time remaining for some surprising twists and turns, and unexpected excitement! There's much more to write, perform, and produce." It occurred to me that I had been letting the story of my own life ramble, that it needed attention and direction. I had to know what I wanted in order to write a cohesive, congruent script. I was filled with a sense of urgency to begin editing and producing a motion picture with impact, purpose and meaning. I began Scripting My Life.

I immediately discovered that scripting your life is quite possibly the hardest work you will ever do. As a matter of fact, some people will argue that it's not even possible...that we don't have that much control over our own destinies. So the question is: How can you control your life script? It's been said that we only have complete control over two things in life: Our thoughts and our behaviors. Since every word we speak or action we take begins with a thought, it follows then, that our thoughts are the one thing we truly control. And our habitual thoughts, the thoughts we linger upon and focus our attention upon throughout our day, eventually show up in our lives as wishes come true. Therefore, in order to script your own life story, you must become the master of your thoughts.

In essence, it is our thoughts that write the story line we then act out through our words and actions. For instance, suppose that, as a small child, you may have seen another group of children playing on the playground and you longed to join them, yet you held on to a thought that said, "They won't want to play with me." Believing it, you hung back away from the group, alone. Then later, perhaps as a teenager, you considered trying out for a sports team, or joining the high school yearbook committee, and that same old voice whispered, "They probably wouldn't want me on that team, or that committee..." so you passed on the idea. And, perhaps, at a later time in your life, as a young adult, you saw someone across a room to whom you were instantly attracted and decided to ask them for a date, but before you stepped up, that old voice said, "Who am I kidding? He/she probably won't want to go out with me anyway." Same thought, different day, scripting your life and creating missed opportunities.

What if you could re-write the script and create a new set of circumstances just by changing your way of thinking? You could do so by replacing the old limiting thoughts with positive new statements, such as, "I step out to do things I have never done in order to have things I have never had." Or, "I am important. My every thought, word and action makes a difference."

None of this is meant to suggest you can change your life simply by walking around with your head in the clouds repeating happy phrases. To the contrary, it takes vigilant attention and lots of practice to notice and then master your thoughts in order to script your own life story. You might catch yourself on a negative wavelength many times throughout the day and you might grow exhausted from the effort of turning those thoughts around. Like any endeavor, it takes a willingness to work at it combined with lots and lots of practice.

It's helpful to have reminders, trigger devices, strategically placed to help you pause and notice your thoughts all throughout the day. For instance, you might place a sticky note on your bathroom mirror that asks. "What are you thinking right now?" Or wear a special reminder bracelet on your arm, or hang a special keepsake from the rearview mirror of your car, or place a reminder item on your desk at work. The most important thing is to notice what you are thinking all throughout your day and then to replace any negative thoughts with something positive, empowering and productive.

I have been consciously practicing a better way of thinking for a while and the results have been amazing. Oh, sure, there are still mountains of trouble that sometimes cross my path, but a better way of thinking helps me to step right up and tackle the climb. So, what are you thinking right now? Does it support what you really want? Congratulations! You are Scripting Your Life...As You Wish!

Carol Gates
Copyright 2005 As You Wish Products, LLC. All rights reserved.

Carol is the co-author of the book As You Wish. She is also the Director of Bob Proctor's Coaching programs and a real estate broker in Scottsdale, Arizona where she resides with her husband, Dan.

The Daffodil Principle

2008-08-12T21:38:00.001+07:00

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you must come and see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. Going and coming took most of a day - and I honestly did not have a free day until the following week.

"I will come next Tuesday," I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call. Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and so I drove the length of Route 91, continued on I-215, and finally turned onto Route 18 and began to drive up the mountain highway. The tops of the mountains were sheathed in clouds, and I had gone only a few miles when the road was completely covered with a wet, gray blanket of fog. I slowed to a crawl, my heart pounding. The road becomes narrow and winding toward the top of the mountain.

As I executed the hazardous turns at a snail's pace, I was praying to reach the turnoff at Blue Jay that would signify I had arrived. When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren I said, "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these darling children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!"

My daughter smiled calmly, "We drive in this all the time, Mother."

"Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears - and then I'm heading for home!" I assured her.

"I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick up my car. The mechanic just called, and they've finished repairing the engine," she answered.

"How far will we have to drive?" I asked cautiously.

"Just a few blocks,” Carolyn said cheerfully.

So we buckled up the children and went out to my car. "I'll drive," Carolyn offered. "I'm used to this." We got into the car, and she began driving.

In a few minutes I was aware that we were back on the Rim-of-the-World Road heading over the top of the mountain. "Where are we going?" I exclaimed, distressed to be back on the mountain road in the fog. "This isn't the way to the garage!"

"We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the daffodils."

"Carolyn, I said sternly, trying to sound as if I was still the mother and in charge of the situation, "please turn around. There is nothing in the world that I want to see enough to drive on this road in this weather."

"It's all right, Mother," She replied with a knowing grin. "I know what I'm doing. I promise, you will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience."

And so my sweet, darling daughter who had never given me a minute of difficulty in her whole life was suddenly in charge - and she was kidnapping me! I couldn't believe it. Like it or not, I was on the way to see some ridiculous daffodils - driving through the thick, gray silence of the mist-wrapped mountaintop at what I thought was risk to life and limb.

I muttered all the way. After about twenty minutes we turned onto a small gravel road that branched down into an oak-filled hollow on the side of the mountain. The fog had lifted a little, but the sky was lowering, gray and heavy with clouds.

We parked in a small parking lot adjoining a little stone church. From our vantage point at the top of the mountain we could see beyond us, in the mist, the crests of the San Bernardino range like the dark, humped backs of a herd of elephants. Far below us the fog-shrouded valleys, hills, and flatlands stretched away to the desert.

On the far side of the church I saw a pine-needle-covered path, with towering evergreens and manzanita bushes and an inconspicuous, lettered sign "Daffodil Garden."

We each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path as it wound through the trees. The mountain sloped away from the side of the path in irregular dips, folds, and valleys, like a deeply creased skirt.

Live oaks, mountain laurel, shrubs, and bushes clustered in the folds, and in the gray, drizzling air, the green foliage looked dark and monochromatic. I shivered. Then we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped. Before me lay the most glorious sight, unexpectedly and completely splendid. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes where it had run into every crevice and over every rise. Even in the mist-filled air, the mountainside was radiant, clothed in massive drifts and waterfalls of daffodils. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow.

Each different-colored variety (I learned later that there were more than thirty-five varieties of daffodils in the vast display) was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.

In the center of this incredible and dazzling display of gold, a great cascade of purple grape hyacinth flowed down like a waterfall of blossoms framed in its own rock-lined basin, weaving through the brilliant daffodils. A charming path wound throughout the garden. There were several resting stations, paved with stone and furnished with Victorian wooden benches and great tubs of coral and carmine tulips. As though this were not magnificent enough, Mother Nature had to add her own grace note - above the daffodils, a bevy of western bluebirds flitted and darted, flashing their brilliance. These charming little birds are the color of sapphires with breasts of magenta red. As they dance in the air, their colors are truly like jewels above the blowing, glowing daffodils. The effect was spectacular.

It did not matter that the sun was not shining. The brilliance of the daffodils was like the glow of the brightest sunlit day. Words, wonderful as they are, simply cannot describe the incredible beauty of that flower-bedecked mountain top.

Five acres of flowers! (This too I discovered later when some of my questions were answered.) "But who has done this?" I asked Carolyn. I was overflowing with gratitude that she brought me - even against my will. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

"Who?" I asked again, almost speechless with wonder, "And how, and why, and when?"

"It's just one woman," Carolyn answered. "She lives on the property. That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory.

We walked up to the house, my mind buzzing with questions. On the patio we saw a poster. "Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking" was the headline. The first answer was a simple one. "50,000 bulbs," it read. The second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman, two hands, two feet, and very little brain." The third answer was, "Began in 1958."

There it was. The Daffodil Principle.

For me that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than thirty-five years before, had begun - one bulb at a time - to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top. One bulb at a time.

There was no other way to do it. One bulb at a time. No shortcuts - simply loving the slow process of planting. Loving the work as it unfolded.

Loving an achievement that grew so slowly and that bloomed for only three weeks of each year. Still, just planting one bulb at a time, year after year, had changed the world.

This unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. She had created something of ineffable magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principle of celebration: learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time - often just one baby-step at a time - learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time.

When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.

"Carolyn," I said that morning on the top of the mountain as we left the haven of daffodils, our minds and hearts still bathed and bemused by the splendors we had seen, "it's as though that remarkable woman has needle-pointed the earth! Decorated it. Just think of it, she planted every single bulb for more than thirty years. One bulb at a time! And that's the only way this garden could be created. Every individual bulb had to be planted. There was no way of short-circuiting that process. Five acres of blooms. That magnificent cascade of hyacinth! All, just one bulb at a time."

The thought of it filled my mind. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the implications of what I had seen. "It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Carolyn. "What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five years ago and had worked away at it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years. Just think what I might have been able to achieve!"

My wise daughter put the car into gear and summed up the message of the day in her direct way. "Start tomorrow," she said with the same knowing smile she had worn for most of the morning. Oh, profound wisdom!

It is pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson a celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, "How can I put this to use tomorrow?"

Jaroldeen Asplund Edwards

Don't Follow The Follower

2008-08-10T22:54:00.002+07:00

Processionary caterpillars travel in long, undulating lines, one creature behind the other. Jean Hanri Fabre, the French entomologist, once lead a group of these caterpillars onto the rim of a large flowerpot so that the leader of the procession found himself nose to tail with the last caterpillar in the procession, forming a circle without end or beginning.

Through sheer force of habit and, of course, instinct, the ring of caterpillars circled the flowerpot for seven days and seven nights, until they died from exhaustion and starvation. An ample supply of food was close at hand and plainly visible, but it was outside the range of the circle, so the caterpillars continued along the beaten path.

People often behave in a similar way. Habit patterns and ways of thinking become deeply established, and it seems easier and more comforting to follow them than to cope with change, even when that change may represent freedom, achievement, and success.

If someone shouts, "Fire!" it is automatic to blindly follow the crowd, and many thousands have needlessly died because of it. How many stop to ask themselves: Is this really the best way out of here?

So many people "miss the boat" because it's easier and more comforting to follow - to follow without questioning the qualifications of the people just ahead - than to do some independent thinking and checking.

A hard thing for most people to fully understand is that people in such numbers can be so wrong, like the caterpillars going around and around the edge of the flowerpot, with life and food just a short distance away. If most people are living that way, it must be right, they think. But a little checking will reveal that throughout all recorded history the majority of mankind has an unbroken record of being wrong about most things, especially important things. For a time we thought the earth was flat and later we thought the sun, stars, and planets traveled around the Earth. Both ideas are now considered ridiculous, but at the time they were believed and defended by the vast majority of followers. In the hindsight of history we must have looked like those caterpillars blindly following the follower out of habit rather than stepping out of line to look for the truth.

It's difficult for people to come to the understanding that only a small minority of people ever really get the word about life, about living abundantly and successfully. Success in the important departments of life seldom comes naturally, no more naturally than success at anything - a musical instrument, sports, fly-fishing, tennis, golf, business, marriage, parenthood.

But for some reason most people wait passively for success to come to them - like the caterpillars going around in circles, waiting for sustenance, following nose to tail - living as other people are living in the unspoken, tacit assumption that other people know how to live successfully.

It's a good idea to step out of the line every once in a while and look around to see if the line is going where we want it to go. If it is not, it might be time for a new leader and a new direction.

For those who have tried repeatedly to break a habit of some kind, only to repeatedly fail, Mary Pickford said, "Falling is not failing, unless you fail to get up." Most people who finally win the battle over a habit they have wanted to change have done so only after repeated failures. And it's the same with most things.

The breaking of a long-time habit does seem like the end of the road at the time - the complete cessation of enjoyment. Suddenly dropping the habit so fills our minds with the desire for the old habitual way that, for a while, it seems there will no longer be any peace, any sort of enjoyment. But that's not true. New habits form in a surprisingly short time, and a whole new world opens up to us.

So, if you've been trying to start in a new direction, you might do well to remember the advice of Mary Pickford: breaking an old habit isn't the end of the road; it's just a bend in the road. And falling isn't failing, unless you don't get up.

Earl Nightingale
Source: The Essence of Success by Earl Nightingale. Edited by Carson V. Conant, used with permission.

Carson V. Conant is the editor of a great new magazine called AdvantEdge, Produced by Nightingale-Conant. It is an incredible success magazine that is full of articles on achieving your dreams.

The Amazing Power of the Human Will

2008-08-08T23:48:00.001+07:00

"My mother taught me very early to believe I could achieve any accomplishment I wanted to. The first was to walk without braces."
Wilma Rudolph

The human will is the most incredible thing. I believe it is the human will that keeps us going, when everyone else expects us to sit, or even quit.

I have always been fascinated by the heroes and sheroes who have made indelible marks in world history; and illustrated distinguished triumphs over seemingly, insurmountable adversity.

I can vividly recall reading about Wilma Rudolph when I was in grade school. Her life epitomized, "breaking through limitations." Over the last three decades, I have thought about Wilma when so-called, "limitations" presented themselves in my own life. I think of Wilma, and I am passionately reminded of the amazing power of the human will.

Wilma Rudolph was born prematurely and weighed only 4.5 pounds. Most of her childhood was spent in St. Bethlehem, Tennessee. There, she was bedridden as she battled double pneumonia, scarlet fever and polio. At six years old, she lost the use of her left leg. Subsequently, she was fitted with leg braces. Later on in life, she was often quoted as saying: "I spent most of my time trying to get them off. (I had an uncompromising resolve) to be a normal kid."

At the age of 16, when she was only a sophomore in high school, the 5' 11" Wilma Rudolph won a bronze medal at the Olympic Games in Melbourne, Australia. And, in the 1960 Rome Olympics, Rudolph became "the fastest woman in the world." She also was the first American woman to win three gold medals in one Olympics. She won the 100 and 200 meter races; and also anchored the U.S. team to victory in the 4 X 100 meter relay, breaking records along the way.

Wilma Rudolph is remembered by family and admirers alike, for her incredible calm and graceful demeanor when under pressure. Valiantly and brilliantly, she removed all of her "struggles" during the course of her lifetime.

She once said: "The most important aspect is to be yourself and have confidence in yourself...triumph can't be had without a struggle."

In 1994, Wilma Rudolph died of brain cancer at the age of 54. Few would argue that she lived a full, purposeful, and triumphant life. Rudolph expected victory when just about everyone else would have understood if she'd just lay down, sit or even quit. Thank you, Wilma, for being the contrary.

Fran Briggs

Fran Briggs is an author, peak performance coach and motivational speaker. She is also the President of The Fran Briggs Companies, an organization dedicated to the personal and professional development of individuals and groups around the globe. Visit Fran's website at: www.franbriggs.com

Single Father

2008-08-05T20:25:00.001+07:00

He's a hardworking father, diligently struggling to feed his little family. The babies clamor for nourishment, yet remain strangely silent in spite of their frenzy. Faithful and patient, the father returns again and again, each time bringing some new expected treat. It is impossible not to stare at the silent ballet of love, devotion, and self-sacrifice. Each tiny mouth is fed, equally and fairly, as if the young father keeps accurate accounts.

The young robin's nest has been built low to the ground and exposed to the sky, so it is obvious that he is young and inexperienced in the ways of the world in which he lives. No stray cats nor hawks disturb the imagination of this devoted dad.

I sit on the ground, tearing up the sod to expose the juicy worms and grubs, and I pray for the safety of the lonely male, who remains devoted to nest and family. His four younglings will soon hunt in our front garden, ravenously devouring any insects and grubs that come within their grasp.

I cannot help but wonder about the mother of the little nestlings. Where has she gone? And why does she not return? Perhaps she fell victim to the many cats that roam in our neighborhood. Perhaps she found a new husband who was more desirable. Or perhaps she understood the uncertainties of life, trusting in this young family man to remain faithful no matter what became of her. Perhaps, like me, she found it easy to fall in love with the male who would best provide for her children should she no longer be able to.

There is a lesson as well as a mystery here in my front garden. The mystery of why, where, and how can only be answered by the lesson of faithfulness and diligence of this young male robin. Parental love is not exclusive to the mothering hen, but it also burns within the heart of the single father, who asks nothing more than the opportunity to serve with love.

Jaye Lewis

Jaye Lewis is an award winning writer who looks at life from a unique perspective, celebrating the miraculous in the day to day. Jaye writes and lives with her family in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. Jaye is searching for a publisher for her recently completed manuscript, Entertaining Angels. She is also a contributing author to Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul and Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul. You can email Jaye at: jlewis@smyth.net

The Razor's Edge

2008-08-04T22:15:00.001+07:00

It has often been said the line that separates winning from losing, is as fine as a razor's edge, and it is. I am referring to winning in a big way, in all areas of life.

Somerset Maugham wrote an entire book entitled, "The Razor's Edge"; Daryl Zanuck produced a movie that had the same title. Both of these men knew there wasn't a big difference among people: there was only a big difference in the things they accomplished.

One person almost starts a project, the other person starts it. One individual almost completes a task, the other person does complete it. One student nearly passes an exam, the other person passes it. Although the difference in their marks may be only one percentage point out of a hundred, it's that one percentage point that makes all the difference.

In 1947, Armed was the first racehorse in the history of United States racing to win over one million dollars in prize money. That year Armed had earnings of $761,500. Yet the horse that finished second in earnings that same year, a horse that often lost races a mile long by only a nose, won only $75,000.

If you were to look at the winnings alone, it would appear that Armed was thirteen times better than his closest competitor. However, when you compare the times that were actually registered by these two horses in their races, you discover that Armed wasn't even four percent superior.

It's the little things you do that can make a big difference. What are you attempting to accomplish? What little thing can you do today that will make you more effective? You are probably only one step away from greatness.

Bob Proctor

Bob Proctor is a best-selling author and speaker. He teaches us how to cross that "Razor's Edge" into greatness. Rarely does he speak in a public forum, however now is your chance. If you want to be one of the select few to see him live take a look at: http://www.insightoftheday.com/a.asp?bpap&1336&isp

Father And Son

2008-07-30T22:02:00.003+07:00

I try to be a good father. Give my kids mulligans. Work nights to pay for their text messaging. Take them to swimsuit shoots.

But compared with Dick Hoyt, I suck.

Eighty-five times he's pushed his disabled son, Rick, 26.2 miles in marathons. Eight times he's not only pushed him 26.2 miles in a wheelchair but also towed him 2.4 miles in a dinghy while swimming and pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars - all in the same day.

Dick's also pulled him cross-country skiing, taken him on his back mountain climbing and once hauled him across the U.S. on a bike. Makes taking your son bowling look a little lame, right?

And what has Rick done for his father? Not much - except save his life.

This love story began in Winchester, Mass., 43 years ago, when Rick was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain-damaged and unable to control his limbs.

"He'll be a vegetable the rest of his life," Dick says doctors told him and his wife, Judy, when Rick was nine months old. "Put him in an institution."

But the Hoyts weren't buying it. They noticed the way Rick's eyes followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked if there was anything to help the boy communicate. "No way," Dick says he was told. "There's nothing going on in his brain."

"Tell him a joke," Dick countered. They did. Rick laughed. Turns out a lot was going on in his brain.

Rigged up with a computer that allowed him to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head, Rick was finally able to communicate. First words? "Go Bruins!" And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, "Dad, I want to do that."

Yeah, right. How was Dick, a self-described "porker" who never ran more than a mile at a time, going to push his son five miles? Still, he tried. "Then it was me who was handicapped," Dick says. "I was sore for two weeks."

That day changed Rick's life. "Dad," he typed, "when we were running, it felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!"

And that sentence changed Dick's life. He became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. He got into such hard-belly shape that he and Rick were ready to try the 1979 Boston Marathon.

"No way," Dick was told by a race official. The Hoyts weren't quite a single runner, and they weren't quite a wheelchair competitor. For a few years Dick and Rick just joined the massive field and ran anyway, then they found a way to get into the race officially: In 1983 they ran another marathon so fast they made the qualifying time for Boston the following year.

Then somebody said, "Hey, Dick, why not a triathlon?"

How's a guy who never learned to swim and hadn't ridden a bike since he was six going to haul his 110-pound kid through a triathlon? Still, Dick tried.

Now they've done 212 triathlons, including four grueling 15-hour Ironmans in Hawaii. It must be a buzzkill to be a 25-year-old stud getting passed by an old guy towing a grown man in a dinghy, don't you think?

Hey, Dick, why not see how you'd do on your own? "No way," he says. Dick does it purely for "the awesome feeling" he gets seeing Rick with a cantaloupe smile as they run, swim and ride together.

This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston marathon, in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best time? Two hours, 40 minutes in 1992 - only 35 minutes off the world record, which, in case you don't keep track of these things, happens to be held by a guy who was not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the time.

"No question about it," Rick types. "My dad is the Father of the Century."

And Dick got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a mild heart attack during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries was 95% clogged. "If you hadn't been in such great shape," one doctor told him, "you probably would've died 15 years ago."

So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.

Rick, who has his own apartment (he gets home care) and works in Boston, and Dick, retired from the military and living in Holland, Mass., always find ways to be together. They give speeches around the country and compete in some backbreaking race every weekend, including this Father's Day.

That night, Rick will buy his dad dinner, but the thing he really wants to give him is a gift he can never buy.

"The thing I'd most like, Rick types, "is that my dad sit in the chair and I push him once."

By Rick Reilly
Sports Illustrated - Used with permission

Dick and Rick Hoyt have a book and DVD. To learn more about this very special father and son team go to: www.teamhoyt.com

A Beautiful Scar

2008-07-27T09:26:00.002+07:00

Rebecca sailed through childhood with a minimum of fuss, the usual scrapes, few illnesses and wonderful academics. Michael didn't sail. He skipped, ran, hopped, rolled, teetered and bounced. The only things he liked about school were recess, lunch and sports.

Mike loved to climb trees, the higher the better. Afraid of scaring him and causing him to fall, I have calmly talked him down, while my heart was in my throat and my knees felt like jelly. No scolding, spanking, or any other punishment kept him from climbing. (No, spanking wasn't illegal in those days.)

When Michael was fourteen, his dad bought him a Honda dirt bike, a purchase that caused me to consider divorce or murder. I had always stated that a motorcycle would take up residence on my property over my dead body. It was inconceivable that one of those deathtraps was going to carry my son all over the countryside - and with his father's approval!

Somehow, the boy survived. He grew up, married a beautiful, dark-eyed young woman, and fathered two children, a son and a daughter. Michael became a partner in his dad's business, a dangerous occupation that he grew to love: select cutting of timber. Safety measures are stressed above all else; and most of the time, Michael follows them. Shortcuts, no pun intended, are deadly in the timber. Two things especially are not done: "You never cut down trees alone" and "you cut smart and don't try to outrun a falling tree."

One day Michael did both. The tree splintered, snapped and the trunk flew upwards, striking Michael's head. He remembers being airborne. When he regained consciousness, he was draped across the trunk, one hand still on the running chainsaw, wedged beneath the tree. He freed his hand, but it took three attempts before he could stand up without passing out again. His hardhat saved his life, but I've always wondered if his hard head wasn't also a major factor...that and his guardian angel.

One day I received a call from my son in the middle of an afternoon, a rare occurrence. "Mom, I don't want to scare you, but I'm in trouble. There's something wrong with my heart. Joyce made me go to the doctor, and he's sending me to the ER. He told me I might not live to get there." Mike's heart had developed an irregular beat so severe that the doctors were afraid that he would go into cardiac arrest. A heart cath showed no damage, and medicines are controlling the irregularity, for which we are all very grateful.

Don't ever ask, "What next, Lord?" For years I have fussed at my children and four grandchildren about their laxness in using sunscreen. Most of them get periodic sunburns, sometimes waiting to see me until the redness has faded. They know that I'm going to react with frustration and impatience. I often told Michael that he wouldn't look very pretty without a nose. That remark came back to haunt me. Mike's sweet wife finally convinced him to see a dermatologist about a small place beside his nose that bled every time he washed his face. I was convinced that the biopsy would reveal skin cancer, but I wasn't prepared for the report.

"Mom, I got gypped again," Mike told me on the phone. I chuckled a bit.

"You have skin cancer, don't you? Don't worry, Honey. Doctors can take it right off." There was a long pause before Mike answered.

"Mom, it's melanoma," he said. I felt as if someone had driven a fist into my stomach. I couldn't breathe. Oh Dear Lord! I cried silently. Melanoma kills people! Our families have already lost so much this year! My daughter-in-law's young brother and grandmother and Mike's grandmother all died within the year! Mike is already dealing with a heart problem! Enough, Lord!

The next few weeks were filled with alternating states of fear and hope and faith. Additional biopsies showed that the cancer filled a larger area than first thought, but the doctors were hopeful and encouraging. They felt confident that all of the cancer could be removed and that there was very little possibility that it had spread anywhere else in his body. Their main concern was the reconstructive process, since such a large area would have to be removed near his nose, even a small part of his nostril.

The surgery was successful; and for many days Mike had to wear a bandage in the middle of his face. After it was removed, there was a red, swollen area that wasn't very pretty; but it improved daily. I didn't care what it looked like. I was just happy that the cancer had not invaded a vital organ.

The other day, for the millionth time, I looked at my handsome son. With my eyes, I traced the fine line that runs from just below his eye to the curve of his nostril. The surgeons did a remarkable job repairing his face. I told Mike that his scar is a war wound, a badge of honor, regardless of how it looks, and that it adds character to a too-handsome face. He thought about that for a minute before he replied, "Huh! You're right. It is a war wound!"

I've learned that nothing hurts us more than watching our children hurt, regardless of how old they are. I've learned that faith isn't faith until it's tested, and I've learned that we don't know whether we really have it until we need it. We can walk away victorious in battle, but we often carry scars to prove the victory.

The remnant of cancer on Michael's face is a line about the width of two strands of thread, a fine scar...a beautiful scar. It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and I thank God for it, daily. It's a constant reminder of how fragile we are, a reminder that we are simply made of flesh and bone, held together with skin. Michael's scar is a token of mercy, grace, and healing, things I don't want to take for granted, ever again.

Barbara Elliott Carpenter

Barbara Elliott Carpenter contributes to many online publications. An award-winning author and poet, her second novel, Wish I May, Wish I Might, the sequel to Starlight, Starbright, is scheduled for release in the summer of 2005. The third book in the trilogy will be released in 2006. She can be reached via email: bjlogger2@aol.com and her web site: www.barbaraelliottcarpenter.com Inquiries and comments are welcome.

Wings

2008-07-25T23:48:00.001+07:00

When my son, Justin, was four, he found a caterpillar and put it in a jar. Each day he fed it fresh grass and leaves. In a few weeks the caterpillar was fat and ready to sleep. One morning we discovered the caterpillar wrapped in a cocoon. It hung from the top of the jar, an example of one of nature's wonders.

Justin was excited. To him it was like Christmas. He knew a moth or butterfly was about to be born, but he didn't know what kind. He was curious to know what gift nature was about to give him.

"Dad!" he ran to me one day. "Something's happening. Come see!"

He led me to his room. The cocoon had become translucent. We could clearly see the wings of the unborn. A few days later, a beautiful black moth broke free from its silky cage and began to lay eggs on the blades of grass, completing the life cycle of the little caterpillar.

The next day, I convinced my young son it was time to set the moth free. He took it outside, opened the jar, and the little moth flew out. It circled the yard twice, came back, and landed on Justin's arm. He picked up, tossed it in the air, and the moth repeated its flight pattern. He tried over and over to set it free, but each time it would return to his arm.

Justin gave up. He returned his little pet to the jar. The next day he attempted to set it free again, and after a few return flights to his arm, the moth finally flew off into the tall grass.

Like a person, I believe the moth was afraid to leave what it was comfortable with. It wanted to stay with something familiar, scared to move on and experience new things.

I was once that little moth. My cocoon was my mother's love. I was comfortable wrapped in it. Like the moth, I didn't want to fly too far from it. My first job required me to move to a new city. I resisted. I was afraid. What would I find there? I liked where I was.

Many times in my life, I have faced a move and resisted. Humans are creatures of habit. We resist change. However, if I hadn't moved, I would not have experienced many new and wonderful things. I also would not have met many of my friends.

The moves have been between cities, provinces, states, and even countries. Each move gave me the opportunity to learn and experience, but best of all, I met friends. I hated leaving my old friends behind, but when I think about it, I didn't lose them. They're still my friends. I talk to them regularly. However, I have even more friends now.

I'm glad I found my wings.

Michael T. Smith

If you would like to email Michael, he can be reached at: mtsmith@qwestonline.com or find more of his writings and bio by going to http://heartsandhumor.com/blog/

The Best I Ever Had!

2008-07-23T11:09:00.001+07:00

"Would you like to stay for lunch?" she asked me. I've always politely turned down the offer many times before. I am ashamed to say that it was for all the wrong reasons.

I would stop to check on this elderly friend of mine. Her home was simple, often times in disarray. Not necessarily dirty, but a reflection of her own disheveled appearance.

The thought of having a meal at her home wasn't very appealing. But that day, I heard that voice calling me to respond to her request.

"Why yes, I think I will stay for lunch," I said.

I think it surprised her. It did me. She was most likely unprepared to hear "yes."

"Oh, well, yes. Really? That would be great," she said stumbling through her response.

I came in and sat in her living room.

"Now, if you aren't prepared, please don't fuss at all," I said.

I could hear her rummaging through her cabinets, opening and closing her refrigerator several times. After a few minutes she called me to come to the kitchen table.

As I entered the room, I could see stacks of newspapers, magazines and a collection of odds and ends scattered throughout. The table was set with two sandwich plates barely nestled in among the stacks of mail, condiments and a few dishes left from a previous meal.

"I hope you like it," she said as she placed sandwiches in front of each of us.

"It's my favorite meal," she said.

"If you made it, I am sure I will love it," I politely responded.

Lifting the top slice of bread I peeked under it to see what exactly I was getting into.

"Ketchup or mustard?" she asked.

"I'll try it plain," I said, still wondering what it was.

She paused, suddenly tilting her head forward. I thought for a moment she was going to say a prayer before our meal. She was crying.

"Are you okay?" I asked her.

Looking up at me she began to apologize. "I know this isn't much of a meal," she said. "It's really all I have."

"My friend, I can't imagine a better meal," I replied.

"Really? I've eaten meatloaf sandwiches since I was a child. It doesn't sound like much to most folks, but this, this is a feast for me," she said.

"We eat meatloaf in the colder winter months," I said.

Then, lowering her sandwich back down to the plate, she turned to me and with trails of tears still visible on her cheeks, she told me her story.

"We were very poor in life. Poor in possessions, not poor in spirit," she said.

She stopped as if reflecting, vividly picturing her childhood days.

"Daddy always made a big thing out of nothing. He could take the simplest thing, of most little value, and make it appear to be a newly discovered treasure. Like meatloaf. We couldn't afford any fancy meats, so ground beef was our filet mignon. When daddy prepared it, it was like he was directing a symphony. The few ingredients were presented, mixed and baked as if he were performing Beethoven's Fifth," she said.

She picked up the sandwich, took a small bite and continued. "The first meal of the week was always meatloaf. In fact it, was often the third and final meal, too. The first was hot and fresh out of the oven, the second a warmed version of it and the last, like what we are having today. A cold meatloaf sandwich."

She took another bite. I still had not begun.

"Don't you like meatloaf, Bob?"

"Yes, I do," I replied, then hesitated as I thought about the possibility of the meatloaf being a week old.

"Good, because I just made this fresh yesterday," she said.

It was heavenly.

"The best I ever had!" I said with a mouthful.

She stopped. Once again she began to cry.

"I'm sorry, maybe you misunderstood me. It wasn't polite of me to speak with a mouthful. I said it was the best I ever had," I said in an effort to assure her.

"I heard you perfectly," she said. Now wiping the tears, she continued. "Bob, that's exactly what my Daddy would say. I swear he could eat garbage and still find greatness in it. Later in my life I realized it was his way of making us think it was a special meal."

We quietly continued our meal, she remembering her childhood and I gratefully thanking God for inviting me to stay.

Meatloaf, "The best I ever had."

Bob Perks

Bob Perks is a speaker and author. You can contact Bob and take a look at his website by going to: www.IWishYouEnough.com

Why The Elephants Don't Run

2008-07-20T09:11:00.001+07:00

A number of years ago, I had the rather unique experience of being backstage in Madison Square Garden, in New York, during the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus. To say the least, it was a fascinating experience. I was able to walk around looking at the lions, tigers, giraffes and all the other circus animals. As I was passing the elephants, I suddenly stopped, confused by the fact that these huge creatures were being held by only a small rope tied to their front leg. No chains, no cages. It was obvious that the elephants could, at any time, break away from their bonds but for some reason, they did not. I saw a trainer near by and asked why these beautiful, magnificent animals just stood there and made no attempt to get away.

"Well," he said, "when they are very young and much smaller we use the same size rope to tie them and, at that age, it's enough to hold them. As they grow up, they are conditioned to believe they cannot break away. They think the rope can still hold them, so they never try to break free."

I was amazed. These animals could at any time break free from their bonds but because they believed they could not, they were stuck right where they were.

Like the elephants, how many of us go through life hanging onto a belief that we cannot do something, simply because we failed at it once before? How many of us are being held back by old, outdated beliefs that no longer serve us? Have you avoided trying something new because of a limiting belief? Worse, how many of us are being held back by someone else's limiting beliefs? Do you tell yourself you can't sell because your not a salesperson?

Particularly in starting or running a business, we are cautioned not to take risks, usually by well intentioned friends and family. How many of us have heard, "You can't do that?" These are the dream stealers who, due to their own limiting beliefs, will attempt to discourage you from living your dreams. You must ignore them at all cost! I am not suggesting that you should not seek advice from qualified individuals and mentors, but that you avoid like the plague, being swayed by the limiting beliefs of others, especially people who are not in their own business.

Challenge your own limiting beliefs by questioning them. If you begin to question a belief, you automatically weaken it. The more you question your limiting beliefs, the more they are weakened. It's like kicking the legs out from under a stool. Once you weaken one leg, the stool begins to lose its balance and fall. Think back to a time when you "sold" someone on yourself. We are selling all the time. You have to sell your ideas to your spouse, your children, and your employees - even your banker. Maybe, as a child, you sold Girl Scout cookies or magazine subscriptions to raise money for your school team. That was selling too!

Once you realize you are, in fact, a capable salesperson, you have weakened that old belief and began to replace it with a new, empowering one. Look for references to support the new beliefs you want to cultivate. As in the example of the stool, you want to reinforce your beliefs by adding more and more "legs" to them. Find people who have accomplished what you want to accomplish, discover what they did and model their behavior. Remember back to times in your past when you were successful and use that experience to propel yourself forward. If your challenge is in sales, read sales books and listen to tapes or attend sales seminars. This is a critical area of your business. One that cannot be undermined by limiting beliefs.

There is a technique called "fake it until you make it" that works well. I am not suggesting you live in denial, just that you begin to see yourself succeeding. Visualize your successes. See yourself vividly in your minds eye making the sale and reaching your goals. Affirm, over and over, that you are succeeding. Write your affirmations daily. Of course, make sure you take the appropriate action. As it says in the Bible, "Faith without works is dead."

Remember that your subconscious mind does not know the difference between real and imaginary. Before you go on a sales call, take a moment and mentally rehearse the scene, just like actors and athletes do. Tell yourself, "I'm a great salesperson." Do this over and over, especially just before a sales call. See the sale being made. See and feel the success. You will be pleasantly amazed at the result. Don't take my word for it. Give it a try. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

It has been said throughout history that what ever you believe, with conviction, you can achieve. Don't be like the poor elephant and go through your life stuck because of a limiting belief you were given or developed years ago. Take charge of your life and live it to the fullest. You deserve the best!

Jim Donovan

Jim Donovan is the author of Handbook to a Happier Life, a motivational speaker and certified business coach. Jim's message is, "Within you is the power to Change Your Life." To learn more about Jim or to contact him go to: www.jimdonovan.com

Broken Eggs and Shattered Glass

2008-07-19T22:26:00.000+07:00

On a recent Saturday evening at around midnight, my wife and I were just about to turn out the light and go to sleep when we heard the sounds of a group of people talking in the street, outside our home. Then out of the blue came two loud thuds above our bedroom window, followed by the noise of laughter and people running away down our street.

We both jumped out of bed, I turned on the external lights and rushed outside unsure of what had caused the two thuds or what damage I could expect to see. The silence of the night was broken by the distant sound of people laughing and at that moment I was of a mind to chase after them, however, running bare-footed on the road in the dark is not a very wise thing to do.

I could hear dripping noises on the driveway and the flood light above our garage helped me to identify just what had happened. Our home had been the victim of an egg bombing!

Being faced with the prospect of cleaning up this sticky mess in the early hours of the morning was not a pleasing thought, on top of which I was less than impressed that we had been singled out for this annoying prank. I decided that it was too late to clean up the mess, as it would disturb our neighbours, so it could wait to the morning.

Early next morning with a bucket of warm water and scrubbing brush in hand, and with the extension ladder placed on the front wall, I was now ready to wash off what was now two dry yellowish, egg grit impregnated, 1 metre long patches above our front bedroom windows.

My task was made even more challenging by the two large canvas awnings which protect our bedroom windows from the heat and glare of the afternoon sun. My annoyance with the late night pranksters was again building to the level of the night before.

After retracting each of the awnings, something we rarely do except when there are very high winds, I then climbed the ladder to clean up the first patch of egg stain and then move the ladder to clean the second patch.

As I climbed the ladder for the second time, I noticed that the glass in a small window just under the roof line was very badly cracked. On closer inspection the crack ran around over half of the outer edge of the window pane. As the awning protected the window, it was clear to me that the damage had not been caused by the egg bombing. As I carefully placed my hand on the glass, I discovered that the pane of glass was very loose and had the window been closed with any force, it would have most likely shattered and the glass dropped to the drive way, some seven metres below.

Just a few metres away, we have a basketball ring and on most days of the week there are up to six young people who play in the immediate area, including both my sons. My thoughts immediately turned to what could have happened if the broken glass in the window had gone undetected for much longer and then suddenly shattered. The likelihood of my two sons and their friends being seriously injured was extremely high.

After quickly washing the remaining egg stain off the front wall and with the help of Tom, my youngest son, I got to work with some heavy duty masking tape and secured the cracked window as best I could. Within 24 hours the cracked window had been replaced and all was back to normal, except for the small bits of egg shell I kept finding on the front drive way and stuck to our garage doors.

Over the next few days, I realized that had our home not been bombarded by those eggs late on that Saturday night, I may not have discovered the broken window pane before it shattered and came down all over our drive way.

Even though it had been an annoyance at the time, the broken eggs and the stains were cleaned up very quickly, however, the pain that could have been caused by the shattering of glass would never have gone away and would have haunted my wife and myself, forever and a day.

The cold shudder that ran down my spine when I first discovered the cracked window and the thought about the consequences of someone being seriously injured or even killed, made me realize just how very lucky we had been.

Frequently in life, the small things that happen to us may have a negative impact and cause some form of pain, sadness, discomfort or personal aggravation. It is often said that we should not 'sweat the small stuff' and always look for the positive outcome or the silver lining in those dark clouds of the current circumstance, even though at the time that is not always an easy thing to do.

My personal experience with the egg bombing on that Saturday evening reminded me that in most cases there is always a flip side to everything that happens to us and that often the flip side can provide a positive outcome or an even greater benefit, if not now, then at some time in the future.

From now on whenever I see or break an egg, I will think of the egg bombing incident and say a thank you to those late night pranksters. Equally, I will always be reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre's quote:

"What is important is not what happens to us, but how we respond to what happens to us."

Keith Ready

Keith Ready is an Australian based business adviser and trainer whose specialty is working with his clients to improve top and bottom line business performance in a measurable way, through people. Keith can be contacted via e-mail at kready@netspace.net.au or you can visit his website at www.agiftofinspiration.com.au

From Spark To Flame

2008-07-18T21:43:00.001+07:00

When my now 19 year old daughter was in Grade 3, all of Mrs. Mathews' students were given a small pot with a bean seed to plant. Green string beans it seems are pretty hardy and the perfect seed to use when promoting green thumbs in young children. That same plant was also a most unexpected source of understanding and insight for me.

Once the bean plants had sprouted and flowered, their teacher allowed the kids to carefully transfer the precious cargo from school to home. Once home, Shanna scouted around for the perfect location and settled on a sunny south window sill and then proudly declared, "Soon I can feed the whole family!"

Shanna's sisters were envious and even our cat looked intrigued which should have been a warning to me because when I woke up the next morning, I saw that the bean plant had been maliciously knocked off the window sill and ripped from it's pot. It's leaves were frayed and except for a limp thread of stem that still connected the roots to the flowering top, it was quite unrecognizable from the day before. The plant, it seemed, was a goner.

I dreaded what I had to tell Shanna but as I gently began to explain that the bean plant had to be put in the compost, her reaction was not what I expected. She said, "Everything will be okay Mom, the plant will get better."

Without wasting a second in thought she secured the first aid kit from the bathroom returning with gauze, a tongue depressor, bandages and a deep belief that the pathetic looking, near-dead bean plant would live, thrive and even produce food!

I had mixed emotions knowing that she was postponing the plants inevitable trip to the compost bin but I went along with it and helped her wrap bandages. Days later, to my absolute surprise, the bean plant was standing tall and looking perky. We were able to remove the bandages and discover a protruding hump in the stem where its near-fatal stem break had been. It was also amazing to see that the one and only bean, had become plump almost completely masking the claw marks that had scarred it.

I don't know why I hadn't thought the cat might go for a second round because it surely did, and this time I ran for the first aid kit! I carefully applied a heavy blanket of everything from cotton and gauze to coloured band aids with "ouch" written on them and when the medic work was done, I whispered a little something to the heavens.

Just one week later we were able to take the bandages off and again we barely found evidence of an attack and there was even a new sliver of green where a second bean was forming. I was excited and amazed while Shanna had been expecting nothing less. Back to the window sill it went but this time we built a fortress of heavy books to keep it safe until our day of bounty.

I set the table beautifully with all the fanfare of a Thanksgiving dinner. The beans were carefully divided by 5, which awarded each person 2 small pieces, claw marks and all. They turned out to be the best green beans I had ever eaten!

My daughter never quite understood my exuberance over the significance of the beans. In my work as a youth motivator I am brought together with kids and teens that all desperately need people to believe in them. Now, more than ever, no matter what I have been told about a child or a teen and their behavior, I see everyone, no exceptions, with the same eyes and heart that my daughter used on her broken, beaten up bean plant.

I wonder if it's a coincidence that later that same week, I stumbled upon a most appropriate quote by Italian Poet Dante (1265-1351): "From a little spark, may burst a mighty flame."

Especially if you believe...!

Monique Howat

Monique Howat is a youth motivator, specializing in self-esteem and founder of Confident Girls and Guys. She presents workshops in elementary and high schools in and around the Toronto area, coaches, trains the trainer and is a public speaker. You can visit her website at www.confidentgirlsguys.com

Angels of Mercy

2008-07-15T21:36:00.001+07:00

A few years ago, Dave, a dear friend, went through a terrible throat surgery and long hospitalization. Though he's a professional motivational speaker who frequently talks about the power of positive thinking, he told me he was surprised to really see how much his attitude affected the amount of mental anguish and physical pain he experienced. Even more, he was surprised how much his attitude was affected by the attitudes of the health care workers he saw each day.

"You could just feel the difference between the few who genuinely cared about you as a person and those who thought of you as one of their daily burdens," Dave said. Unfortunately, the majority of men and women who came in and out of his room were coldly indifferent. They treated him as a medical problem rather than as a person suffering from a medical problem and he found the experience demoralizing, depressing and deeply disrespectful.

Many doctors and nurses seemed annoyed by his presence and his problems. They would often talk about his condition in front of him as if he weren't there. Most failed to demonstrate the slightest concern with the effect their callous words and demeanor might have on their patient. Dave found this attitude outright toxic.

In contrast, the few workers who went out of their way to lift his spirits and brighten his day with simple but sincere expressions of concern and encouragement weren't just good medical professionals. They were good people. These "angels of mercy" who bring their hearts to their work, knowing that mental sunshine and flowers can be as important as drugs, deserve our love and admiration.

Remember, character counts!

Michael Josephson
www.charactercounts.org

The Touchstone

2008-07-14T22:55:00.001+07:00

When the great library of Alexandria burned, the story goes, one book was saved. But it was not a valuable book; and so a poor man, who could read a little, bought it for a few coppers.

The book wasn't very interesting, but between its pages there was something very interesting indeed. It was a thin strip of vellum on which was written the secret of the "Touchstone"!

The Touchstone was a small pebble that could turn any common metal into pure gold. The writing explained that it was lying among thousands and thousands of other pebbles that looked exactly like it. But the secret was this: The real stone would feel warm, while ordinary pebbles are cold.

So the man sold his few belongings, bought some simple supplies, camped on the seashore, and began testing pebbles.

He knew that if he picked up ordinary pebbles and threw them down again because they were cold, he might pick up the same pebble hundreds of times. So, when he felt one that was cold, he threw it into the sea. He spent a whole day doing this but none of them was the touchstone. Yet he went on and on this way. Pick up a pebble. Cold - throw it into the sea. Pick up another. Throw it into the sea.

The days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months. One day, however, about mid-afternoon, he picked up a pebble and it was warm. He threw it into the sea before he realized what he had done. He had formed such a strong habit of throwing each pebble into the sea that when the one he wanted came along he still threw it away.

So it is with opportunity. Unless we are vigilant, it's easy to fail to recognize an opportunity when it is in hand and it's just as easy to throw it away.

Author Unknown
From "Bits & Pieces," Economics Press

The Red Ribbon

2008-07-13T14:57:00.001+07:00

Everyone wants a blue ribbon. Blue. First place. The best. Even kindergarteners want that blue ribbon. In sports, I was never a blue-ribbon person. In a race I was always last. In baseball I was as likely to get hit on the head as to drop the ball. In basketball I was fine as long as there weren't nine other players on the court with me. Where I got my horrible sports ability, I don't know, but I got it. And I got it early.

During the spring of my kindergarten year, our class had a field trip to a park in a town about 20 miles away. Making that drive now is no big deal, but when you're six and you've lived in a town of 300 all your life, going to a town of a couple thousand is a very big deal. Nonetheless, looking back now, I don't remember much of that day. I'm sure we ate our little sack lunches, played on the swings, slid down the slide, typical six-year-old stuff. Then it was time for the races.

However, these were no ordinary races. Some parent had come up with the idea to have the picnic kind of races, like pass the potato under your neck and hold an egg on a spoon while you run to the other side. I don't remember too much about these, but there was one race that will forever be lodged in my memory, the three-legged race. The parents decided not to use potato sacks for this particular race. Instead, they tied our feet together.

One lucky little boy got me for a partner. Now what you have to know about this little boy is that he was the second most athletic boy in our class. I'm sure he knew he was in trouble the second they laced his foot to mine. As for me, I was mortified. This guy was a winner. He almost always won, and I knew that, with me, he didn't have a chance.

Apparently he didn't realize that as deeply as I did at the time. He laced his arm with mine, the gun sounded, and we were off to the other side. Couples were falling and stumbling all around us, but we stayed on our feet and made it to the other side.

Unbelievably when we turned around and headed back for home, we were in the lead! Only one other couple even had a chance, and they were a good several yards behind us.

Then only feet from the finish line, disaster struck. I tripped and fell.

We were close enough that my partner could have easily dragged me across the finish line and won. He could have, but he didn't. Instead, he stopped, reached down, and helped me up, just as the other couple crossed the finish line. I still remember that moment, and I still have that little red ribbon.

When we graduated 13 years later, I stood on that stage and gave the Valedictory address to that same group of students, none of whom even remembered that moment anymore. So, I told them about that little boy who had made a split-second decision that helping a friend up was more important than winning a blue ribbon.

In my speech I told them that I wouldn't tell which of the guys sitting there on that stage was the little boy although he was up there with me. I wouldn't tell because in truth at one time or another all of them had been that little boy, helping me up when I fell, taking time out from their pursuit of their own goals to help a fellow person in need.

I told them why I've kept that ribbon. You see to me, that ribbon is a reminder that you don't have to be a winner in the eyes of the world to be a winner to those closest to you. The world may judge you a failure or a success, but those closest to you will know the truth. That's important to remember as we travel through this life.

You may not have a red ribbon to prove it, but I sincerely hope you have at least a few friends who remember you for taking time out from your pursuit of that blue ribbon to help them. I'm thinking those will be the ones that really count. I know it's the one that counted the most to me.

Staci Stallings

Looking for outstanding inspiration to kick-start your life? Visit Staci Stallings, the author of this article, at her blog, Heaven Bound. http://stacistallings.blogspot.com You'll feel better for the experience!

Marguerite Proctor

2008-07-12T21:35:00.002+07:00

On Saturday, September 30, 2006 I lost one of the best friends I will ever have - Marguerite Proctor passed on to the next phase of her eternal journey. She was the beloved mother of Bob Proctor, Helen Brindley and Al Proctor. She leaves a wonderful legacy in her three children, 8 grandchildren and 27 great-grandchildren.

Last Friday's Insight of the Day featured a great article dealing with decisions - and how you can choose to deal with issues in a positive way or a negative way. I write this hoping that you will be able to see how the decisions this great lady made, combined with her love and focus - impacted her life in a positive way and went on to influence the lives of her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and with and through them - many thousands of individuals around the world. Marguerite made tough decisions and she always leaned on the positive side when she made them.

Marguerite actively participated in life - she read, she voted, she stayed up on current affairs and on politics and was an avid sports fan. She beamed with pride the years the Toronto Blue Jays won the World Series. However, when the Jays weren't doing well you could hear her talking to her television set.

Marguerite traveled around the world. She went to China, Indonesia, Europe, the UK and all over North America. Her social calendar was always full. She played bridge, golf and shared meals and drinks with her many friends.

In spite of her busy social calendar Marguerite always had time to visit or help a friend in need. There is one story I recall hearing that emphasizes her giving nature. The story took place during the Second World War - early in the 1940's when keeping food on the table and a roof over their heads was no easy task. But when she heard of a family who lived near by that didn't have any coal for their furnace, during a particularly cold spell, she took half of the only money she had and gave it to them to purchase a ton of coal to heat their home. The fact that she didn't know them made no difference. A book could be written on stories of this nature that people have shared with me about this wonderful woman. In retrospect it is not difficult to understand why she lived such a long, prosperous life. She understood the secret was in giving - not getting. The decisions she made to share all she had became a part of her family's way of life.

Marguerite grew up and married in Owen Sound, Ontario, but in the early 1940's while her husband was caught up in the Second World War somewhere in Europe; she moved her mother and three children to Toronto.

I clearly remember a few years ago asking her what motivated her to make that move, a move that would have been a very courageous one in those days - especially when all of her relatives told her she was crazy - that she would never make it in the big city in such dire times. She told me she realized that if her kids grew up in this small town in Northern Ontario (Canada) there would be very little career opportunity for them, except for factory work and she wanted more for them. She said about the time she first thought of moving, her insurance agent moved to Toronto. She met with him, asked him what he did and decided that if he could do it so could she. And that is exactly what she did.

She not only moved to Toronto, she borrowed $500 and used it as a down payment on a house. She then told me that she paid the $500 off in three years and three months and went on to pay off the mortgage. I asked her how she was able to do that with a base salary of $22 per week and she said that she did without everything she could, worked as hard as she could, did extra jobs, so that she could pay for the house. She added that you could do a lot with $20 in the early 1940's. I remember hearing her say how grateful she was that she could work that hard. She had an incredible work ethic and obviously instilled that into her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

From the time Marguerite Proctor was a very young woman she had goals. All through her young years, when she worked long hours just to make ends meet and raise her three children, she had a dream of spending her winters in Florida and the remaining six months in Canada. Her dream became a reality in her mid sixties when she bought a home in Largo, Florida. Catching her at home - at either home - could be a challenge though. She once commented that no one ever phoned. So, I purchased an answering machine for her, to prove to her that we did phone - she was just never there!

Marguerite's successful life obviously had a lot to do with her ability to set and achieve her goals. But in all the years I knew this woman I can honestly say she was not one to dwell on her problems and although she had good reason to, she never felt sorry for herself. In fact, when she was in her 80's she learned that she had breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy. She only told us of her impending surgery a day beforehand. Naturally we were upset with her and wanted to know why she had not shared this information. She informed us that there was nothing we could do about it and there was no sense worrying everyone with it.

My husband Bob and I showed up at the hospital the morning following her surgery and didn't find her in her room. Given her age and the seriousness of the surgery we were immediately concerned. When checking at the nurse's station they told us they were having a hard time keeping her in her room in spite of the tubes attached to her - she was visiting friends on the ward offering them love and encouragement.

It was only a short period of time after her cancer operation that this great woman's attitude received another severe test - she began losing her sight to Macro Degeneration. But true to her nature she again made the best of a bad situation and immediately began to study Braille and subscribed through the Institute for the Blind to talking books which she devoured.

Loss of sight never slowed her down - she even continued to play golf. During a conversation with one member of the family, the subject of e-mail was brought up and she said that surely blind people could use e-mail. And you guessed it, in nothing flat she had a computer in her home with a voice program on it and she was e-mailing people all over North America from her home in Florida. She smiled and said, "I just decided I could."

A few months ago, a hospice worker came to visit her and asked if she was depressed. Marguerite replied, "I have nothing to be depressed about. I am 93 years old and have had a wonderful life and family. I have traveled the world and have everything I want. And if I need anything and can't afford it - my family provides it. Why should I be depressed?"

On her deathbed she continued to inspire us. There were a few places she never had a chance to visit - Australia was one of them. So in the weeks prior to her death, one of her grandchildren sat by her bed and read to her about Australia. Marguerite continued to marvel about how interesting a place Australia surely must be. Even facing death, she remained interested in life and learning.

Marguerite and I enjoyed a wonderful relationship, my own mother passed away when I was 23 and so I looked to her as a second mother for 27 wonderful years!

If you could design a program to give you the ideal mother-in-law, Marguerite would be it! She never ever interfered. I'm sure there were times she wanted to say something - she certainly was not lacking for an opinion. But she never did interfere. She was not judgmental, nor was she demanding.

I think the real secret to Marguerite's happiness and the lessons I have learned from her are that when anything happened that required a decision - she made the decision and it was always to move in a positive direction. She stayed busy, she never focused on herself, she knew how to make a decision and stick to it. And for her, goals in life meant doing a lot and giving a lot.

Marguerite raised three children, all of whom are successful entrepreneurs; 8 grandchildren, one who has become a superior court judge in Canada, the rest are entrepreneurs and corporate executives and of course her 27 great-grandchildren, many on the verge of just starting their careers - all of whom loved and respected her so much. And if you were to ask any one of them, they would be quick to tell you that they are so thankful that she made the decisions she did - resulting in them being where they are today.

Marguerite Proctor was a wonderful mother, Marguerite's family received a special gift in the time they were able to spend with her prior to her death - to be able to truly give back to her and let her know how much she was loved and appreciated and how much she had impacted them. It was a special time for everyone.

Take a look at the decisions you are making and realize that, like Marguerite Proctor, your decisions will probably impact a great many people - many of whom you will probably never meet.

Oh, and by the way, if your mother is still alive - give her a hug and make sure she knows how much she is loved and appreciated. And realize that it truly is a gift to be able to spend time with your mother.

Linda Proctor

The Voice of a Child

2008-07-11T09:09:00.001+07:00

Cory and Mark were the best of friends. They were like two peas in a pod, inseparable most days. They even managed to hang out at recess time, which meant chatting over the fence that separated their schools. When Mark played at our house, he was an absolute joy to have around. I never understood why his mom would always say, "I hope he didn't give you too much trouble!"

I will never forget that day I took the boys to their summer camp. Mark stepped out of the car and my heart leapt from my chest. Were my eyes deceiving me? His face was a mottled combination of red, green and purple with the outline of two handprints still embedded in his skin.

When I calmly asked Mark what had happened, he said that a bee tried to sting him and he had slapped himself. I looked into his 11-year-old eyes and asked if he was okay. He said he was fine but I felt his pain and knew otherwise.

As I hung up the phone from Children's Aid I felt terrible. I had known Beth for years through the boys' friendship, which made my decision even harder than it was. I felt my fear of having to make the call, it was almost paralyzing, but I knew in my heart that I had no other choice. Someone had to be the voice of this helpless child.

I began to remember the times when I heard the yelling and witnessed Mark, in his stocking feet, banging on his kitchen window, begging to be let back into his locked house. Why didn't I say something then?

I knew that an intervention must have taken place because the next day, Beth approached me and asked if I had made the call. I looked into her eyes, knowing I had done the right thing and said, "Yes."

She yelled and ranted that she was a good mother, that I had no right to interfere and that it was none of my business how she chose to discipline her child. She was so angry. I tried to calm her down, reassuring her that I knew she was a good mother and I asked if we could talk about it. There was no reasoning with her. She stormed back to her house cursing me even more and said that as far as she was concerned I no longer existed and she vowed that the boys would never play again.

My heart went out to my son as he longed to play with his friend. He didn't understand why they couldn't. September came and once again the boys met at the fence between their schools, even though Mark was terrified that his mom might find out. He told Cory about how his mom had gone to anger classes, how he and his sister almost went to foster homes and how his dad was almost taken out of the home as well. Beth blamed me for all of it, which I couldn't change.

I could feel the anger and judgment swelling in my neighborhood. I couldn't imagine what they had been told. No one spoke to me and it felt like daggers were shooting out of their eyes. Some couldn't bear to even face me, turning away as soon as they saw me! I had known some of these neighbors for over 15 years!

I would be lying if I said it wasn't uncomfortable at times. My feelings of fear, anger and hurt consumed me and there were days that I felt sick to my stomach as I drove into my subdivision, the energy of this anger was so powerful. I knew I had to move these emotions out of the way so that I could empower Cory to move through his. I held him as he cried in my arms not wanting to go trick or treating that Halloween thinking that he wouldn't get any candy because all the neighbors hated me!

As a mother, how could I be in judgment of Beth? I felt my compassion for her. I had been there. As a parent I think we all have. So overwhelmed with our own suppressed emotions that we finally explode. I remembered the days when I used to yell at my kids projecting my anger and my disappointment in them. I may not have harmed them physically, but the verbal and emotional abuse was just as damaging. It's only when I learned from my mentor, how to take responsibility for my behavior and reactions, that I was able to Break the Cycle of parenting in my family. Ultimately, these shifts led me to my life's work, as my partner and I inspire others to do the same.

Ten months later, Cory passed one of his Tae Kwon Do exams. He was so excited and desperately wanted to share this news with Mark. Cory said, "Maybe if Mark's mom knows that I'm into this sport, then she'll like me." I assured him that it wasn't about him...and he need not fear her. I encouraged him to go share his news with his friend and told him that maybe he could be the one to inspire her to let go of her anger. Cory courageously walked out of our house with his broken piece of wood in tow and bunches of butterflies in his stomach. I was so proud of him and I prayed that they would open their door to him. A few minutes later, he came running in, busting to tell me, "He can play Mom...Mark can play with me!!" He dropped the wood and they ran to the park, all of us ecstatically happy!

One day Mark told Cory to thank me. My son asked why, and when he repeated Mark's words to me, tears of joy filled my eyes and love exploded in my heart. Mark said, "Because your mom called, my mom CAN'T hit me anymore!"

Although there were times that I had wanted to move to escape from my uncomfortable feelings, I knew these feelings would move with me. It was and still is up to me to take care of myself and find peace within me and in my home.

The boys still play together either on the front lawn or in the garage. As I watch them, I dream that maybe one day they'll be able to play in each other's houses again.

As I remember the pain of this experience, I would do it all again in a heartbeat...maybe sooner next time. Millions of children are without a voice, living in fear and pain. Help them feel safe.

Be the voice of a child in your life.

Jo-Anne Cutler

Jo-Anne is a life coach, facilitator and aspiring author. Her vision is to inspire and empower us to be the best parents; teachers and role models the children of this world need us to be. To learn more about Jo-Anne, her work and upcoming book, please visit: www.jcconnections.ca Jo-Anne would love to hear your thoughts on today's story, please e-mail her at coaching@jcconnections.ca

The Choice...

2008-07-09T21:52:00.001+07:00

"Decisions are easy when values are clear."

Unknown

You awaken and immediately decide, it's going to be a great day or you decide that it's not.

You drive to work and the car next to you suddenly cuts you off, you can choose to immediately respond with understanding or with anger.

You get to work and your boss tells you about a change in operations that will happen next week. You can choose to be excited about the opportunity or fearful of the change.

Later in the day, you are asked to lunch by a couple of new guys from another department. You can decide to make new friends and go or be small and kindly decline.

Before you leave for the day, you receive an email about giving to an annual charity campaign. You can choose to give freely or hold on tightly.

When you get home, your toddler asks you to play 'batman and monsters.' You can make the choice to join in the fun or refuse.

At dinner, the dog jumps on your lap again, who let the dog in anyway? You can choose to be patient and calmly let the dog outside or you can show your frustration and fatigue.

After dinner, your oldest child brings in his math test, he earned a 'B.' You can choose to encourage and recognize the effort or tear him down by asking why it wasn't an 'A.'

When you go to work in your shop later in the evening, you can choose to wear PPE and work safely or you can make the choice not to wear it.

At bedtime, as you turn off the light, you can choose to tell your spouse what he/she means to you or you can keep quiet.

What kind of day would it have been if you chose the former in all cases? What type of day would it have been if you had decided on the latter in all situations? In these cases there are not any 'rights' or 'wrongs' just simple choices. The hidden secret of life however is that we are a product of the simple decisions we make each moment. Each day we make hundreds if not thousands of choices. We make a conscious choice for happiness, leadership, a smile, love, kindness or generosity. Or we just as easily opt for smallness, fear, anger, resentment, bitterness or hatred.

So, what type of day is it? The choice is up to you...

Matt Forck

Matt Forck is a dad, husband and former Journey Electrical Line Worker now Safety Supervisor serving a major mid-western utility. He has published numerous articles on a variety of topics and is looking forward to the release of a new book; The Call Project. You can reach Matt via his web site: www.thecallproject.org

Life is a Bag of Frozen Peas

2008-07-08T10:56:00.002+07:00

A few weeks after my first wife, Georgia, was called to heaven, I was cooking dinner for my son and myself. For a vegetable, I decided on frozen peas. As I was cutting open the bag, it slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. The peas, like marbles, rolled everywhere. I tried to use a broom, but with each swipe the peas rolled across the kitchen, bounced off the wall on the other side and rolled in another direction.

My mental state at the time was fragile. Losing a spouse is an unbearable pain. I got on my hands and knees and pulled them into a pile to dispose of, I was half laughing and half crying as I collected them. I could see the humor in what happened, but it doesn't take much for a person dealing with grief to break down.

For the next week, every time I was in the kitchen, I would find a pea that had escaped my first cleanup. In a corner, behind a table leg, in the frays at the end of a mat, or hidden under a heater, they kept turning up. Eight months later I pulled out the refrigerator to clean, and found a dozen or so petrified peas hidden underneath.

At the time I found those few remaining peas, I was in a new relationship with a wonderful woman I met in a widow/widower support group. After we married, I was reminded of those peas under the refrigerator. I realized my life had been like that bag of frozen peas. It had shattered. My wife was gone. I was in a new city with a busy job and a son having trouble adjusting to his new surroundings and the loss of his mother. I was a wreck. I was a bag of spilled, frozen peas. My life had come apart and scattered.

When life gets you down; when everything you know comes apart; when you think you can never get through the tough times, remember, it is just a bag of scattered, frozen peas. The peas can be collected and life will move on. You will find all the peas. First the easy peas come together in a pile. You pick them up and start to move on. Later you will find the bigger and harder peas. When you pull it all together, life will be whole again.

The life you know can be scattered at any time. You will move on, but how fast you collect your peas depends on you. Will you keep scattering them around with a broom, or will you pick them up one-by-one and put your life back together?

Michael T. Smith

If you would like to email Michael, he can be reached at: mtsmith@qwestonline.com or find more of his writings and bio by going to http://heartsandhumor.com/blog/

Love and Loss

2008-07-06T13:19:00.001+07:00

I was lucky. I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parent’s garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation - the Macintosh - a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started?

Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.

I really didn't know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down - that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me - I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.

I didn't see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.

During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT.

I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple's current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.

I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers.

Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking.

Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle.

Steve Jobs

Steve Jobs gave this as his second story of his Commencement Address at Stanford University on June 12, 2005.

Five Dangerous Words

2008-07-05T19:28:00.002+07:00

One crisp autumn morning, I drove downtown for a breakfast meeting with a client. I hummed along to the oldies music on the radio and found myself smiling.

When I stopped at a red light, I noticed a faint whisper of steam in front of my car. It was rising from the space between my front bumper and the back of the mini-van that stopped in front of me. I figured the source of the steam was the mini-van's warm exhaust meeting with the cold air. So I turned my attention back to the song on the radio.

At the next traffic light, the mini-van scooted through the intersection as the light turned yellow. I caught the red light. As I sat there, I noticed steam-like vapor rising from the hood of my car. But this time there was no mini-van's exhaust pipe in front of me. The cold air against my car's warm engine is causing this vapor, I thought. I glanced at my temperature gauge just in case the engine was more than warm. But the car was fine. The gauge indicated a medium temperature. So on I went.

I found a parking spot, met with my client, and then drove home.

At 6:30 that evening, I got back into my car and headed to my Monday night writing class. At a stop sign along the way, I noticed a faint bit of steam rising from the hood of my car again. I pulled a familiar bit of reasoning from my short-term memory. Okay, it's got to be the cold night air against the car's warm engine that's causing this, I figured. But unconvinced of my logic, I checked the temperature gauge. It said normal. I shrugged, drove on and got to class a few minutes later.

I took my seat and pushed aside any concern about my car's mysterious vapor. I was relieved to focus instead on the writing lesson of the week.

I had an uneventful ride home. When I walked in the door, I mentioned the vapor to my husband. "I'll take a look under the hood for you tomorrow," Steve said.

A week of tomorrows went by. Neither of us remembered to check under the hood. But I didn't see any vapor that week, either.

So I went on about my business, paying less and less attention to the car's temperature gauge each day. I figured the less I checked the gauge, the less my chances would be of finding anything wrong.

At the end of the week, I drove to my chiropractor's office. I settled into a chair in the waiting room. Not in the mood for thumbing through the old copies of Reader's Digest or People, I amused myself by looking around the room. I checked the clock on the wall a few times, noticed that the Boston fern was greener than the one I had at home, figured it must be artificial, and stared at the geometric pattern of the blue and white carpet.

Whoops. I turned back to the wall. Something next to the clock had caught my eye. Something I hadn't noticed before - despite the many times I'd been to my chiropractor's office. The something was a small, brown, wooden sign:

Five dangerous words:

Maybe it will go away.

The sign was posted to encourage my chiropractor's clients to listen to their bodies and to come in for treatment sooner rather than later. But the sign said much more than that to me that day.

In a flash it told me to attend to that vapor coming out of the hood of my car. And as soon as my appointment was over, I drove straight to the Toyota service department.

I told the attendant on duty about the vapor. One look and she had the mystery solved. "Your radiator is cracked," she told me." One more mile and it would have overheated. You must know your car pretty well to have come in when you did. It's a good thing you listened to the signs."

She had no idea what sign I'd "listened" to.

Perhaps there is a situation you face in your life that you wish would either go away - disappear with a snap of your fingers and magic phrase like "presto-change-o" - or be transformed overnight without any intervention on your part. Whether that circumstance is a dissatisfying career, an unrealized dream, a bad marriage, an injustice you don't want to mention, signs of abuse that you'd rather not acknowledge, or a mile high stack of unopened mail - one thing is certain:

Wishing that "maybe it will go away" won't make it so. Only action that supports the situation you do want to create holds the power of transformation.

Erica Ross-Krieger, M.A.

Erica Ross-Krieger, M.A., is a nationally acclaimed Success Coach and author of the newly released inspirational book, Seven Sacred Attitudes - How to Live in the Richness of the Moment. You can reach Erica at: Erica@EricaRossKrieger.com or feel free to visit her website at: www.EricaRossKrieger.com

Your Destiny Switch

2008-07-01T06:40:00.002+07:00

"Knowledge alone is not enough. Only with understanding can real application begin. And that will help bring you to the place you want to be."

Peggy McColl

Get a copy of Peggy's new book Your Destiny Switch

Serenity

2008-06-24T20:53:00.001+07:00

Calmness of mind is one of the beautiful jewels of wisdom. It is the result of long and patient effort in self-control. Its presence is an indication of ripened experience, and of a more than ordinary knowledge of the laws and operations of thought.

A man becomes calm in the measure that he understands himself as a thought evolved being, for such knowledge necessitates the understanding of others as the result of thought, and as he develops a right understanding, and sees more and more clearly the internal relations of things by the action of cause and effect, he ceases to fuss and fume and worry and grieve, and remains poised, steadfast, serene.

The calm man, having learned how to govern himself, know how to adapt himself to others; and they, in turn, reverence his spiritual strength, and feel that they can learn of him and rely upon him. The more tranquil a man becomes, the greater is his success, his influence, his power for good. Even the ordinary trader will find his business prosperity increase as he develops a greater self-control and equanimity, for people will always prefer to deal with a man whose demeanor is strongly equable.

The strong, calm man is always loved and revered. He is like a shade-giving tree in a thirsty land, or a sheltering rock in a storm. Who does not love a tranquil heart, a sweet-tempered, balanced life? It does not matter whether it rains or shines, or what changes come to those possessing these blessings, for they are always sweet, serene, and calm. That exquisite poise of character which we call serenity is the last lesson of culture; it is the flowering of life, the fruitage of the soul. It is precious as wisdom, more to be desired than gold - yea, than even fine gold. How insignificant mere money-seeking looks in comparison with a serene life - a life that dwells in the ocean of Truth, beneath the waves, beyond the reach of tempests, in the Eternal Calm.

James Allen
1864-1912

Excerpted from "As A Man Thinketh"

A Grateful Heart

2008-06-19T22:24:00.001+07:00

When yesterday was said and done, I sat down to reflect on what I thought was a tough day at the office. I wanted to say those two very simple but powerful words, 'Thank You', and I thought I would have to dig pretty deep to find something I was grateful for...It turns out it wasn't that difficult after all.

So I want to say thank you for fellow teachers who chose to smile at me as they walked by or even managed to take the time to ask how I was doing.

For all the students who challenged me and made me wonder what I could have said and done differently.

For those kids in the back row who knew how to push all the right buttons, and made me think twice about teaching that way again.

For the quiet ones in the corner who did all the right things and then shyly said goodbye as they left the room, and made me smile.

For the struggling student who finally 'got it' - And let the whole class know about it.

For the diligent students who handed in a masterpiece (and reminded me that some of them do actually listen to instructions).

For the co-workers who lent an ear or a shoulder, until I once again came up with my own reasons why I have chosen this challenging path (and perhaps why it keeps drawing me back).

For the books that messed up my desk as I tried to find new and interesting ways to teach the same thing (knowing that somewhere in the world a teacher would love to have that as a problem).

For the endless stream of fresh water, coffee, tea, milk and sugar and morning teas served up right here in the staff-room.

For classrooms fitted out with every possible teaching aid and the latest pieces of technology (even if I don't really know how to use any of them very well).

And thank you for the eager, smiling faces of those students who say good morning to me as I rush by each day and actually seem pleased that I am back to do it all over again!

Maybe I can teach them facts and figures, or how to string a sentence together in a foreign language...and maybe they will never remember any of it, who knows?

I do know that every day I come here as a teacher, knowing very well that I am the one who is here to learn...and that I indeed have a lot to be thankful for.

Nicole Papasidero

Nicole Papasidero teaches Japanese to Grades 7, 8 and 9 in a country school in New South Wales, Australia. Feel free to email Nicole and let her know how today's message touched you, at: nici@mosaic-m.com.au

An Hour Of Time

2008-06-18T21:42:00.001+07:00

Tim was disappointed that his father didn't attend the last soccer game of the season, but he wasn't surprised. Tim was a mature 10-year old and he understood that lots of clients depended on his dad, a lawyer, who had to work most nights and weekends. Still, it made him sad, especially since this year he won the league's most valuable player award.

One evening Tim got up the nerve to interrupt his father's work at home to ask him how much lawyers make per hour. His father was annoyed and gruffly answered, "They pay me $300 an hour."

Tim gulped and said, "Wow, that's a lot. Would you lend me $100?"

"Of course not," his father barked. "Please, let me work."

Later, the father felt guilty and went to Tim's room where he found him sobbing. "Son," he said, "I'm sorry. If you need some money, of course I'll lend it to you. But can I ask why?"

Tim said, "Daddy, I know your time is really worth a lot and with the $200 I've already saved, I'll have enough. Can I buy an hour so you can come to the awards banquet on Friday?"

It hit his father like a punch to the heart. He realized his son needed him more than his clients did. He needed to be there for his son more than he needed money or career accolades. He hugged him and said, "I'm so proud of you, nothing could keep me away."

Lots of parents are stretched to their limit trying to balance business demands and family needs. It's always a matter of priorities. But if we don't arrange our lives to be there for our children, they will regret it - and after it's too late, so will we.

This story is derived and adapted from one that was circulated on the Internet without attribution. The original source is unknown.

Michael Josephson
www.charactercounts.org

The Game of the Keys to Life

2008-06-16T22:12:00.003+07:00

A few years ago, I had to plan an activity for a youth group, followed by a talk. Little did I know that after the game, the true meaning of what happened would come to light.

Wanting to be original, I devised a game where a hamper, filled with chocolate bars and candy, sat on a table. Everybody wanted it. There was only one problem. It was locked and required a key to open it. I told the participants that their objective was to find the key to open the lock. They had one hour. I supplied them with a sheet with clues and told them that there were twenty keys outside in the neighborhood. Other than that there were no other rules to the game. They could organize themselves in any way they chose.

When we started, some formed groups with their friends, some chose to search alone and one person decided not to participate. The neighborhood was filled with kids scurrying around.

At the end of the hour, one group had found eight of the keys, another five and the rest were divided among the others. Of course, the person who decided not to participate had none.

The time came to see whose key opened the lock. The group with eight tried all of theirs, but none worked. Those who had five were unsuccessful too. One of the groups who had fewer had the key that opened the lock to the treasure.

The two groups who had gathered the most keys complained that the game was not fair. After all, they had gotten the most keys. I had to agree with them and muttered some cliché that life was often like this. Did they expect life to be fair?

Then I began my talk.

I explained that in life we often set our sights on treasures. They usually take keys to open. The keys may be things like a certain level of education, courses on various subjects, physical strength, an honest character, even good looks. There are many more keys to success that you can imagine.

In life, we can choose to look for keys any way we want. The more we cooperate with others and work with them, the greater our chances of getting more keys. If we work alone though, it is still possible to get keys. However, if we refuse to participate, the chances of getting the key that will open our treasure will be zero.

Although the number of keys that you get doesn't guarantee success, it will increase your chances of opening the treasure. Still, a person with only one key does have a chance of opening the treasure you want. Although it doesn't seem fair, life is like this.

Then it struck me. Right in the middle of my talk, I understood something I had never understood before. The groups that had complained that they had lots of keys, but had lost the treasure had missed the point, and so had I.

Yes, not one of their keys had opened the treasure. But, they still had lots of keys. The game was not over. They still had the keys. There must be locks out there somewhere that contained other treasures that could be unlocked by these keys.

The first part of the game was accumulating as many keys as possible, but that did not guarantee the first lock that was encountered would be opened by one of them. What is important is the second phase. If your treasure isn't opened on the first try, you must look for other locks.

Perhaps the job you really wanted was given to somebody else. Maybe the girl of your dreams can't return the same affection. What you have to realize is that the gifts that you have been given, have worked for and found, the keys, will eventually open up your treasure as long as you keep looking. Sitting around complaining that your keys didn't open up the first treasure you sought won't do any good. You have to keep looking for the treasures that fit your keys. Otherwise you will live a life full of regret and unfulfilled potential. You will always be looking back at what might have been instead of what will be.

Yes, there is a treasure out there just for you. Just keep looking and keep collecting those keys, then look for the locks they will open.

John Stevens

John Stevens is a creative, "idea" person from St. Marys, Ontario, Canada, who does some freelance writing. He is filling his time with some occasional teaching while looking for his next adventure in life. You can email John at: john.stevens@rogers.com

Unleash The Superhero In You

2008-06-12T22:22:00.003+07:00

Within every human being, exists an infinite supply of creativity, strength and wonder.

You are capable of more than you know.

Let me tell you about a real life Superhero I know. His name is Mike Berkson.

Mike Berkson was born a few minutes after his twin brother David, on February 4th, 1989. Shortly after birth, Mike was diagnosed with cerebral palsy. Doctors told his parents that he would not be able to talk and he would never be a student in a regular classroom. By the time Mike was 3, he was not only talking up a storm but had a thirst for vocabulary. Mike sets BIG goals. Mike excels in English and History, is creative in writing short stories and has ambitions in film making.

Mike lives in a Chicago suburb and now attends high school. He loves rap music, Seinfeld reruns, movies, girls, and many other things most teenagers are interested in. Mike is unique in that he has to work around some obstacles in his day to day life that you and I will never be faced with.

Because he is confined to a wheelchair, and has limited use of his arms and legs, he is paired with someone to help him through the day so he can attend school and get the quality of education he deserves. For a few years, my friend Tim was fortunate enough to be paired with Mike and serve as Mike's aid and helper.

Ponder the things you do every day and imagine being physically unable to do them. Tim was responsible for taking notes for Mike, assisting him with eating, the bathroom, transportation and all the things that we do without thinking about.

As Tim and Mike grew closer and Tim became a member of Mike's family, Tim felt a yearning to share with the world Mike's awesome attitude, and how Mike deals with prejudices, ignorance and inconveniences despite his circumstances.

Tim was so inspired by the Superhero within Mike, that last year he set a goal to write a book about Mike and run 1,200 miles from Florida to Chicago to promote it.

Just one tiny problem...at the time, Tim could hardly run 30 minutes and in order to achieve his goals within 4 months, he would have to write the book at blazing speed AND get into the kind of physical condition to maintain a pace of running 40 miles per day for 31 straight days.

Impossible you might think? No. Remember I told you that you are more powerful than you think you are.

You see Tim had a unique source of motivation to fuel his goals. He had Mike. He had the examples from years of watching Mike display the traits of a real life Superhero. Tim had the inspiration of making a promise to an exceptional young man. Tim had the motivation of a purpose greater than himself.

Tim had the yearning to pursue a series of goals so much bigger than anything he had ever done before, that he just had to try. As a tribute to Mike, Tim had to push himself beyond anything he ever previously did, as Mike does every single day.

Some people in life believe you should only pursue goals you know you can achieve. Others believe the success lies in the growth that occurs from stretching beyond your previous wins, and that all growth is success.

How do you define success?

I interviewed Tim recently on my radio show. Tim explained how he found an endurance coach and transformed himself from a couch potato into an ultra endurance champion. Tim did not reach his goal of running 40 miles a day. You see, his plan was flawed. He made a lot of mistakes. His schedule for the run was so tight, that he did not allow himself any room for error, like weather, funding, or the hazards of running alongside traffic. His approach for raising money was limited. He had a skeleton crew of one to accompany him on the run.

He had to return home by a certain date, regardless of how far behind he was, so he had to drive the distances to catch up when he fell behind. Shortly after he started his journey, he realized he would not be able to achieve the 1,200 miles and still make it home on time. But he kept running anyways, he wanted to Keep On Keeping On. He would rather continue stretching himself than consider quitting.

Why is Tim's journey considered a success by many? Because he dared to pursue it in the first place. Because he did finish his book about Mike in record time. Because he succeeded in transforming his body into an Ultra Endurance Machine for that time. Because he DID succeed in running an average of 24 miles per day for a total of 700 miles. Because he didn't quit, even when he realized he could not reach every goal he set for himself. Because he touched the heart of a young man who looked up to him. Because he inspired a lot of people to go beyond what they previously thought they could do.

Because for a moment in time, he taped into the Superhero inside himself and unleashed more of his own potential.

Rising above circumstances like a champion inspires other people.

We must re-evaluate our perspective on what success really is.

Are you a success if you play it safe your whole life and never dare anything unless you are guaranteed victory?

When you set BIG Goals, it is important to set many smaller goals that coincide with it. Even if you fail to reach your deadline for one Goal, you will still succeed at many, and you will build your confidence to a much higher level. Give yourself empowering reasons for getting up when you feel down.

There is a Superhero inside YOU.

What Goals can you set that will inspire you to unleash it?

Keep On Keeping On.

Live Your Dreams.

Jill Koenig

Jill Koenig, the "Goal Guru" is a best selling author, coach and motivational speaker. She is an expert on the subjects of Goal Setting, Time Management and Business Success. Visit her website at: www.GoalGuru.com

Just Three Words

2008-06-10T19:14:00.001+07:00

July 1, 2005, I met my grandchildren and my stepdaughter, Heather, for the first time. She was having marital problems. We were there to bring her and her boys back to new Jersey to live with us. Ginny and I walked through the airport in Oklahoma. "There they are!" she said.

"Where," I asked, looking around.

"There!" Ginny pointed.

I saw a beautiful young lady and two boys - ages three and five. They were the oldest of three boys. They stood staring at me, as Heather and Ginny hugged. Ginny turned to the boys and opened her arms, "Joshie! Seth Man! I missed you!"

They ran into her arms. It'd been a year since they'd seen their Gingin. Her hugs were needed. Grandmother hugs are the best. Ginny stood. Heather and the boys stared at me - the unknown grandpa. Ginny introduced me to her daughter. Heather was polite, but I could sense the doubt. Who was this man she didn't know? I would have to convince her, I wasn't replacing her dad. Her dad was in heaven now. I was just a man who loved her mom.

Ginny introduced me to Joshie and Seth. They were too shy to look at me. They stood, side-by-side, their eyes passing from Ginny and Heather, with only quick glances in my direction. Their eyes said it all, "Is that our new Poppa?"

We shared hugs and went back to their house, where I met Benny and his other grandma - Sonja. Benny was the youngest of the three and even more afraid of me.

The next day, the older boys were doing flips over my lap and laughing. Benny hugged Sonja, still scared of me. The following day, we packed the kids in the car and headed for New Jersey.

A year later, I sit here and write this story.

My life had changed. My house had been full of breakable and memorable things. In a few weeks they were gone. I hid them in closets and drawers. Our bedroom became a storage room. There are only so many times you can tell a child not to touch something before you realize, they can't help it. I just packed it all away!

Ginny and I used to spend an hour or two talking or reading when I came home from work, but with the grandkids here, we would always be interrupted. It was a new life. The quiet times were gone.

A year later, Heather and the boys are leaving on a new adventure. The boys are visiting their dad in Oklahoma and will join their mom in Idaho in a few months. Our house is empty. We have our life again - or do we?

I was up at 5 AM to see them off on their trip to see their dad. Their bags were packed and loaded in the car. I was up to see them off. We grabbed the last of their stuff, clamored down the steps and opened the car doors. Benny and Seth jumped in, excited about the trip and seeing their dad. I gave them the best hugs I could, considering they were in such a hurry. Tears formed in my eyes. They'd been a thorn in my feet, but I'd grown used to those thorns.

I buckled Benny in his car seat, stood, and heard, "Poppa Mike?"

I turned toward the voice. Joshie stood staring at me. He'd snuck around the back of the car. "Yes, Joshie?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Joshie," I said. Big tears began to roll down my cheeks. "I love you too, buddy. I'll miss you. Be a good boy for your daddy."

The car pulled away. They were gone. I went back into the house and looked around. There were a few small toys scattered about. I saw a plastic block in a corner. In the kitchen was a pack of Crayons. Behind the sofa was a cart full of Lego's.

My house was bare of trinkets but full of memories.

A few days later, I sat in the living room and noticed the scratch marks on my teak coffee table. They were the marks from a "Bob the Builder" plastic saw. When I first saw those marks, I was so angry, I stomped out of the house and took a long walk to cool my temper. I thought of all the breakables hidden in closets. Memories of a broken lamp, stomping feet, yelling, screaming, crying, interrupted conversations, spilled drinks and sprayed food flashed through my mind. It had been a rough year for me. I had a hard time adjusting to having young kids in the house.

A little boy walked around the back of the car and said, "I LOVE YOU!"

The stress, cries, scratches on tables, stains in carpets, tablecloths cut with scissors, screams, nicks, marks, and broken furniture were forgiven. Three words said with meaning. That's all it took, just three powerful words - I LOVE YOU!

Michael T. Smith

To read more stories by Michael please visit: http://subs.zinester.com/86758/ or email him directly at: mtsmith@qwestonline.com

RIGHT

2008-06-09T21:55:00.001+07:00

That's right. It's right. He's right. She's right. Those words are echoed every day by millions of people. Once we decide we are right, an abundance of energy goes into defending our rightness. However, if we look at the situation objectively, we will quickly become aware that we are never right.

Our way may be a good way, it can be a valid way, it might even be a better way - but it will never be the right way. The minute you believe your way is the right way, all other ways will be wrong. That attitude will quickly paralyze progress. It will shut down the creative juices, which have given you and I a standard of living that is the envy of the world.

Permit me to make a suggestion. The next time you hear yourself saying, "that's right or I'm right," correct yourself immediately by repeating, that is a good way, and I might act on it. However, there is a better way and I will look for it.

The first telephones were a good way, a better way, even a great way to communicate. However, history has proven that the first telephones were certainly not the best way to communicate. By comparison with today's telephone systems, they were terrible.

This basic concept holds true with everything we do, from health care to air travel. Think of your own business or industry and the role you play in it. You could very easily be caught in the trap of doing your job the same way because you believe it is the right way. It may be effective but there is always a better way. One small adjustment could improve your productivity one hundred percent.

Your way may be effective, it may be valid, but it's never right. There is a better way. Find it!

Bob Proctor

Bob Proctor is an author, speaker and personal success coach. He is always helping people to find a better way. Go to www.ccprogram.com to find out about his personal coaching program.

Six Months to Live and Laugh

2008-06-08T22:35:00.001+07:00

On the day a woman learns she has only a short time to live, she meets someone who shows her the humorous side.

By Dorothy G. Hensley

Editor's Note: Dorothy G. Hensley, age 89, is in the final months of her battle with congestive heart disease. We received this submission from the Dream Foundation, whose mission it is to grant terminally ill adults one final wish. Dorothy's dream is to be a published writer. We are happy to acknowledge her talent and publish her wonderful story.

This is the day I learned that my life is coming to an end, and that's all right. Eighty-eight years is more than most people get.

My daughter and I sat in Dr. Barbara's office. "I have done everything I can for you," she said, kindness in her voice. "Would you like me to contact hospice?" Surprised, I didn't know how to react. The doctor was looking into my eyes, waiting for a sign of understanding. "They can take care of your needs, enabling you to stay home." She paused, and then said, "Do you know about hospice?"

I said, "Yes, I had hospice when Mia's dad died." I was remembering the flurry of activity, almost eight years ago, when a registered nurse and two aides arrived at our home, along with a delivery of a hospital bed, bedside potty, a wheelchair, and a walker. In no time at all the bed was standing and made up in the living room, the potty was hidden behind a screen, the wheelchair was out of the line of traffic, and the walker was folded and leaned against a wall. Yes, I was acquainted with hospice.

Mia spoke, "Are you telling me my mother has six months to live?"

The doctor transferred her attention to Mia. "No. We don't say that now." She looked back at me, "You may live months or a year..." I sensed hesitation in her demeanor. I stood, ready to leave; I needed to go home and talk this over with God.

However, before I could go home, I had to keep an appointment made last week with a beautician, a stranger, since retirement had claimed the operator I was in the habit of using. Maybe the hair-do would give me a lift. Yet I felt a strong need to talk about what I thought of as my new status. Until I was better acquainted with it myself, I didn't want to discuss the obvious change in my relationship with Mia; she needed time, too.

Back in the car an unfamiliar silence lay between us. By the time Mia stopped the car to let me out at the beauty shop, I knew what I was going to do. Suddenly I was glad I didn't know the hairdresser.

Her name was Melody. After introductions, I was seated in an adjustable chair, leaned back against a sink, and felt water and shampoo fingered onto my scalp. Then, before I could change my mind, I said, "I've just been told that I'm going to die." Her fingers stilled immediately. She said nothing for a moment, so I added, "I'll have to call in hospice." Then I sat quietly, waiting. When her fingers started working again, I felt the muscles in my neck become tense. What was she going to say?

"Hospice, huh? You're telling me you've got six months to live?" I opened my mouth to speak but didn't have time before she continued. "You can't have six months. That's mine. You can have three months or five or nine, but you can't have six."

For the second time that day, I was too surprised to speak. She finished rinsing my hair and pushed a knob on the chair that allowed me to sit up - and just kept talking... I began to laugh.

"I get lots of free lunches out of that six-month prognosis. My kids treat me great too. The other day my granddaughter said, 'Don't say that, Grandma. It might be bad luck.' I said, 'Well, someday it's going to be true. Then won't you be glad you were nice to me all those years?" I was laughing out loud now, and it felt wonderful.

"I tell anybody who needs to know," she added. "One day I parked in a hard-to-find-space, and a woman in a Mercedes stopped behind my car as I got out. She yelled at me, 'I've been waiting to park there. I had to turn around first.' The teenage boy sitting in the passenger seat looked embarrassed - as well he should. I told her, 'You want this parking place? Okay. You can have it. I've got six months to live, so a parking place is the least of my worries. I'll just get in my car and pull out. You can have it.' The teenager said, 'M-o-m-m-m?' and the lady left without further chatter. It comes in handy, you know?" I continued to laugh.

Only God has the wisdom and the knowledge to choreograph that particular afternoon in my life, with all the right people in all the right places at the right time. As I got ready to go home, I faced the back of the shop where Melody was shampooing her next client and talking a mile a minute. Smiling, I said in my head, "Thank you, God."

On occasion, when I sense a dark mood hovering around, waiting to pounce, I think of Melody and laugh. Oh, I'm still going to die, but I won't die in six months. I wouldn't dare!

More About The Author:
Dorothy G. Hensley has said of writing that she felt "almost overpowered with a passion as strong as hunger, as demanding as birth." Dorothy did not complete high school and never believed she had the talent to be a writer; but she has written all her life. Her daughter remembers her mother getting up very early in the morning so she could write at the kitchen table while the house was quiet.

When Dorothy was in her 40's, she went to a junior college to learn to be a better writer, despite lack of support from her husband and ridicule from classmates 25 years her junior. Three years ago, at the urging of her daughter, Dorothy began taking a memoir-writing class. It was in those classes that her instructors and classmates acknowledged her as a talented writer, and she began to believe it.

Dorothy has written many stories about her family and experiences while growing up. It is her dream to see her passion of writing in print - to be recognized as a writer of promise before she dies. She is currently in hospice care.

The Dream Foundation, the first national organization in the U.S. founded to bestow a final wish on adults. Dream spokesperson Eve Lechner wrote, "Our dreams focus on providing resolution, a sense of completion and fulfillment. We cannot provide a cure for our dreamers, but we can dramatically impact the quality of their fragile lives with the joy experienced from a dream come true."

If you would like to contact Dorothy and let her know how her story touched you, please email Eve2@aol.com

Having A Vision

2008-06-07T20:55:00.001+07:00

Whether you liked his politics or not, much can be learned from the life of former President Clinton. Grolier's "New Book of Knowledge" reports that as a teenager "Clinton thought of becoming a doctor or a reporter or even a musician. But after a fateful meeting with President John F. Kennedy, while still in high school, he made up his mind to enter politics." At that moment a vision was born that he would hold onto - that he would glorify in his mind over and over - for the next 30 years, until he himself was elected President at the age of 46.

Jay Leno, who succeeded the venerable Johnny Carson as host of "The Tonight Show," first envisioned that he would be the host when he was just 22-years-old and unknown and unproven as a comedian, much less as host of a show of such regard. For twenty years he enthroned in his heart an ideal that most people would have thought was "foolish, outlandish and impossible."

The ancient writer tells us in Proverbs that "Without a vision, the people perish." And Thoreau told us that "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." No doubt because the masses are without a vision for their lives.

What is your vision for your future, your ideal life? Is it written down? Do you review it and think about it often? Have you "enthroned" it in your heart? Is your life organized around goals and objectives that will ensure your vision is reached?

Wallace D. Wattles, wrote "There is no labor from which most people shrink as they do from that of sustained and consecutive thought; it is the hardest work in the world." And yet it is the "sustained and consecutive thought" about our vision that is the first and primary labor of achievement.

Thoreau also wrote one of my favorite passages of all time. And it gives us the best reason there is to stop what you're doing today and identify the vision for your life. "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours."

And that's worth thinking about!

Vic Johnson

Vic Johnson is a speaker, author and entrepreneur. You can get a free e-book of As A Man Thinketh by going to his website: www.asamanthinketh.net

An Unusual Wake

2008-06-05T21:59:00.001+07:00

The casket was merely a wooden box. The flowers were discards from the florist. Arrangements had been made and the announcement placed in the paper; which was a bit unusual in and of itself. He had provided well for her; she could have very well provided an elaborate wake.

He had owned and operated a successful restaurant in their small town. Bill was well-known in the community and had held local government positions. He deserved the best. On the other hand, she had the hearse donated and since the restaurant was closed anyway, she decided to have the wake held in their establishment. She could save money that way, she surmised.

His son and son-in-law were standing in their dark suits waiting at the door. They were passing out slips of paper with his birth and the date of his passing. Friends and family had gathered, each passing by the closed wooden box paying his or her respects, each in his or her own individual way.

"Look at those flowers." Their snide remarks were overheard.

"Would you look at that casket?"

His own mother, in her seventies had arrived and was seated in one of the straight-backed chairs near the back; she had her instructions from her daughter-in-law. Others filed in and took a seat at one of the many tables in the main dining room. His wife was nowhere to be seen. The casket was closed so there was no way of knowing for sure what it contained. Those gathered could be overheard, "Where is Betty?"

The restaurant had been draped in black and food was spread out on the back tables. She thought since their friends would be gathered they might as well make a party of the occasion. But she had not arrived yet and the casket remained closed.

"Some people have a sick sense of humor."

"What would Bill think of this, if he could see the wake Betty has arranged?" Those in attendance could be heard questioning.

"Think he would be upset?"

"What ever possessed her to think of doing this?"

Most, who had come, had never seen anything like this before - held in a place of business as well. "Whatever possessed her?" There was anticipation as to what was going to happen next.

Suddenly the door opened and in they walked.

"SURPRISE!!!!"

Bill loved it!!! he was fifty, and I had planned the whole "Over the Hill" Party!

Cakes in various arrays of tombstones and other decrypted comic sayings and scenes awaited consumption by all the guests. He opened gag gifts all evening and glowed in the limelight.

Fourteen years have passed and he still speaks of that night and how I managed to have a temporary grave maker made with his name on it. He remembers how I told him we were going out to dinner that evening with friends and then the doorbell rang and there stood the undertaker. The hearse drove us up and around the town square and through the streets of the city. Then to his surprise he found himself in front of his own restaurant where a huge sign welcomed him to his own wake.

I'm glad I ignored those who were leery of how he might take such a party. I knew he would love it. We have cried together and laughed together as a couple over the forty-five years of our married life. That night he laughed and had the best time of his life. He still laughs when he thinks about all the fun we had.

Of all the things I have ever done for my husband, his 50th Over the Hill Birthday Party was by far a moment neither one of us will forget. Even the guests remember all the fun we enjoyed.

Many marriages would survive longer if partners would have more fun laughing their way through life. When looking for a husband - women, I would suggest a man with a sense of humor!

Betty King

Betty is an author, newspaper columnist, speaker and freelance writer. She is a contributing author to several Chicken Soup books the latest of which are Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul and Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul. Visit Betty's website at www.bettyking.net for more about her and her writings or email her at baking2@charter.net

Reach For The Stars!

2008-06-04T20:18:00.000+07:00

I attended the "Fine Arts Fiesta" in our area. I certainly appreciate the masterful craftsmanship and genius that goes into each and every creation I see. But I must be honest with you.

I go there to eat!

Boy did I eat! Not only did I consume the great food that was offered in plentiful portions, but I consumed the ambiance, the aroma, the sounds of happy, festive people. I was like a sponge.

We circled the town square several times. Of course each time we passed the food stands we found something else to munch on. Then we sat and listened to a six piece swing band from new York City. POW!

Everyone was caught up in the excitement. There were kids, teens, moms, pops, and grandparents. They were swinging and swaying as they tapped their feet and clapped their hands to the music that for that moment had no boundaries or divisions. We were one.

The night air was chilling. But who cared? The dust from the long winter has been blown away and life was screaming "Dance! Forget! Don't worry, be happy!"

I love to watch people. While most everyone had their eyes fixed on the band I had mine fixed on them. I was excited by the possibility that there are still common grounds in a world seemingly so divided.

I looked up past the stage lights and into the cloudless sky. There, off in the distance, was one bright shining star. It called my name and said "Reach for me you fool! You've been going no where because you've reached for things within your grasp. Stretch out beyond the things you can see. Reach far beyond your grasp and become all you were meant to be."

I slowly moved my eyes back down to the stage lights. They were brighter than the star but anyone can reach the stage lights. I wondered what was waiting for me between the lights in my reach and the star far beyond. I knew there was no challenge hidden in what I could see. The challenge lies between here and there.

But then isn't every dream a stretch of the imagination?

Head out into the night and fix your eyes on a star. See yourself lifting off and floating effortlessly toward that star. Turn for one moment and look at all that is there before you. Imagine that the next step you take, the next challenge you accept is going to take you to new heights. And all the world will see you for that beautiful, wondrous star that you are. Somewhere, someone will be looking one day at you and wishing that they, too could reach that far.

I promise you that I will head out into my back yard and I will look at a thousand stars and pray that each of you will see yourself there.

But I've always seen you that way..."I believe in you!"

Bob Perks

Bob Perks is a speaker and author. You can contact Bob and take a look at his website by going to: www.IWishYouEnough.com

A Day To Remember

2008-06-03T22:10:00.001+07:00

Here in the USA it is known as Veteran's Day. In Canada it is known as Remembrance Day and is a national Holiday. The number 11 took on a new meaning after 9/11, but it signified freedom long before that.

As a kid I had no idea what it meant. To me it was just another holiday. A day when stores were closed and more importantly, there was no school. I knew about the war, but I was free to play. I knew people died for our freedom, but I could sleep in. I knew my parents had little when they were growing up because of the war, but I had food on my plate and a day to watch TV. The real meaning of the day was distant to me.

Years later my daughter joined the Brownies. The first year she was a member I was setting the alarm to wake us on the morning of 11/11. She had to participate in a parade. Every Brownie, Girl Guide, Cub Scout, and Scout had to participate in this parade in remembrance of those who died for our freedom.

My wife and I left her with the Guide leader and proceeded to the Canadian Legion where we would wait for her. The kids paraded a mile along the coastal roads of Nova Scotia, carrying their flags high and proud. We parents waited for their big arrival. As we waited the veterans began to arrive. Old men now, long past the prime they were, when they fought in the trenches and watched their comrades die. Many came in wheelchairs, some limped, and some still stood strong.

They joined the kids and walked as proudly as they could to the legion, where a band waited. The band played, speeches were made, and on the 11th month, the 11th day, the 11th hour, the 11th minute, and the 11th second there began one minute of silence. It was during that minute that I wondered why I had not stood there in the cold before. Why had I not gotten out of my bed on this holiday and stood with those that fought for our freedom? It took my daughter to make me realize the importance of the day.

I never missed another Remembrance Day.

Many years later, because of work, I was separated from my family. I was in another city, but on Remembrance Day, I heard there was going to be a service in the city square. This was in Saint John, New Brunswick. I put on my jacket and tie, walked the mile to the service and stood in the damp cold and watched those brave men once again march for our freedom. I don't know if it was because I was away from my family or the sight of those old men still walking proudly, but that service sticks with me always.

The Veterans marched, wheeled, and limped to the city square. The mayor gave a speech, the minute of silence came, and when it ended a bagpipe began to play "Amazing Grace." After the first chorus a second one joined in, along with a small band and on the third chorus more bagpipes joined and a brass band began to play. The building of sound, the magic of the moment is something I will never forget. The tears filled my eyes that day as the blood must have filled the trenches in battle. It was a moment burned in my mind forever.

On November 11th, let's all take a minute to remember those who fought for our freedom and those that continue to fight for it.

May God bless them all.

Michael T. Smith

If you would like to email Michael, he can be reached at: mtsmith@qwestonline.com or find more of his writings and bio by going to http://heartsandhumor.com/blog/